“No, I’d rather have one of these tents. There’s no objection to my taking one of them?”

“None whatever, madam. They are at present very much in the position of articles in a lost-property office. I could not say if there would be any probability of your meeting one of the owners, but I should surmise that would be a far stretch even for the proverbially long arm of coincidence.”

“Well, if I did bump into one of the owners I could say I found it,” Carrie suggested.

“That would undoubtedly offer a perfectly feasible explanation; madam. Shall I fold the tent for you as handily as possible?”

“Thank you, Toker, if you will, please.”

The butler set about his task with the gravity of a high priest performing a solemn rite.

“I have made as good a job of it as I could, madam, but I fear it’s an awkward bundle, except for the back, which is the method adopted by hikers for what may be called without the least irreverence, I trust, taking up their beds and walking. Are you quite sure, madam, that on second thoughts you would not prefer me to fetch you a plaid?”

“No, I think you’ve made quite a convenient bundle for me, Toker, thank you.”

“I appreciate the compliment, madam, though I venture to think I hardly deserve it. I hope you will have an agreeable day, madam, and that the cave will repay you for the long and somewhat arduous walk.”

“I’m sure it will.”

Carrie put a loop of the tent round her cromag, swung the cromag over her shoulder, and set out.

“Well, the more I see of Americans, Mrs Parsall, the queerer I think ’em,” Toker presently observed to the housekeeper. “There’s Mrs Royde now. Nothing would please her but she must take a tent to sit on. Gone off with it over her shoulder like a blooming Dick Whittington.”

“Americans?” Mrs Parsall echoed. “Don’t talk to me about Americans, Mr Toker. Good English milk gone sour, that’s what Americans are.”