"Now here," she suddenly declared, stopping, "here I'm going to ask you two questions. You 'll never guess them. The second depends on the first. It's a test. You can't ever guess them. But if you don't," she laughed, "I shall be disappointed and shan't like you."
Archer forbore to make the complimentary retort. With her, it would have been silly. "I 'll try my best," he replied.
"Now, first," she said, with a pretty air of pedagogy, "my father and I call this hollow the Marathon field, sometimes. Why is that?"
Archer rubbed his brows and frowned.
"Now it is n't Byron. I hate him," said his examiner. "I 'll give you a clue. What is this underfoot? You 'll never find it growing so far north again."
They were standing in a little patch of feathery green stuff, with a few belated yellow flowers. A faint aromatic smell came to the aid of his memory.
"Fennel!" he cried joyfully. "I know—it's what old Pan gave to what-was-his-
