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“I don’t see the place,” said the young lady on the stone. “I can’t imagine how they did it up—not one bit.”

Did it up!” exclaimed the father of the family in the tone of one accustomed to find a gentle sport in the intellectual frailties of his womenkind.

“It’s just the bones of a place. They hung things round it. They draped it.”

“But what things?” asked Sir Richmond.

“Oh! they had things all right. Skins perhaps. Mats of rushes. Bast cloth. Fibre of all sorts. Wadded stuff.”

“Stonehenge draped! It’s really a delightful idea;” said the father of the family, enjoying it.

“It’s quite a possible one,” said Sir Richmond.

“Or they may have used wicker,” the young lady went on, undismayed. She seemed to concede a point. “Wicker is likelier.”

“But surely,” said the father of the family with the expostulatory voice and gesture of one who would recall erring wits to sanity, “it is far more impressive standing out bare and noble as it does. In lonely splendour.”

“But all this country may have been wooded then,” said Sir Richmond. “In which case it wouldn’t have stood out. It doesn’t stand out so very much even now.”

“You came to it through a grove,” said the young lady, eagerly picking up the idea.