gentlemen lingered at the turnstile for a moment or so to watch his proceedings. “Modern child,” said Sir Richmond. “Old stones are just old stones to him. But motor cars are gods.”
“You can hardly expect him to understand—at his age,” said the custodian, jealous for the honor of Stonehenge....
“Reminds me of Martin’s little girl,” said Sir Richmond, as he and Dr. Martineau went on towards the circle. “When she encountered her first dragon-fly she was greatly delighted. ‘Oh, dee’ lill’ a’eplane,’ she said.”
As they approached the grey old stones they became aware of a certain agitation among them. A voice, an authoritative bass voice, was audible, crying, “Anthony!” A nurse appeared remotely going in the direction of the aeroplane sheds, and her cry of “Master Anthony” came faintly on the breeze. An extremely pretty young woman of five or six and twenty became visible standing on one of the great prostrate stones in the centre of the place. She was a black-haired, sun-burnt individual and she stood with her arms akimbo, quite frankly amused at the disappearance of Master Anthony, and offering no sort of help for his recovery. On the greensward before her stood the paterfamilias of the family automobile, and he was making a trumpet with his hands in order to repeat the name of Anthony with greater effect. A short lady in grey emerged from among the en-