That village is bewitched, and that old woman's tea. Good white magic!
And that foul innkeeper and that brigand at the gate. Black magic!
And now here is the home of all enchantment--'island valley of
Avilion'--'waters that listen for lovers'--all the rest of it!"

Dickson observed and marvelled.

"I can't make you out, Mr. Heritage. You were saying last night you
were a great democrat, and yet you were objecting to yon laddies
camping on the moor. And you very near bit the neb off me when I
said I liked Tennyson. And now..." Mr. McCunn's command of
language was inadequate to describe the transformation.

"You're a precise, pragmatical Scot," was the answer. "Hang it,
man, don't remind me that I'm inconsistent. I've a poet's licence
to play the fool, and if you don't understand me, I don't in the
least understand myself. All I know is that I'm feeling young and
jolly, and that it's the Spring."

Mr. Heritage was assuredly in a strange mood. He began to whistle
with a far-away look in his eye.

"Do you know what that is?" he asked suddenly.

Dickson, who could not detect any tune, said "No."

"It's an aria from a Russian opera that came out just before the war.
I've forgotten the name of the fellow who wrote it. Jolly thing,
isn't it? I always remind myself of it when I'm in this mood, for
it is linked with the greatest experience of my life. You said, I