She beamed into his face. “May I come in?” she asked. “What a wonderful smithy.”

“Nobbut old scarecrow of a place. Nothing to see.”

“Ach!” she cried jocularly, “but that’s just what I like. Old things are by way of being my business, you see. You’d be —” she made a gesture that included the old smith and the motionless figure in the background—“you’d all be surprised to hear how much I know about blackschmidts.”

“Ar, yes, ma-am?”

“For example,” Mrs. Bünz continued, growing quite desperately arch, “I know all about those spiral irons on your lovely old walls there. They’re fire charms, are they not? And, of course, there’s a horseshoe above your door. And I see by your beautiful printed little notice that you are Andersen, not Anderson, and that tells me so exactly just what I want to know. Everywhere, there are evidences for me to read. Inside, I daresay —” she stood on tiptoe and coyly dodged her large head from side to side, peeping round him and making a mocking face as she did so — “I daresay there are all sorts of things —”

“No, there bean’t then.”

The old smith had spoken. Out of his little body had issued a great roaring voice. His son half turned and Mrs. Bünz, with a merry laugh, nipped past him into the shop.

“It’s Mr. Andersen, Senior,” she cried, “is it not? It is — dare I? — the Old Guiser himself? Now I know you don’t mean what you’ve just said. You are much too modest about your beautiful schmiddy. And so handsome a horse! Is he a hunter?”

“Keep off. ’Er be a mortal savage kicker. See that naow,” he shouted as the mare made a plunging movement with the near hind leg which he held cradled in his lap. “She’s fair moidered already. Keep off of it. Keep aout. There’s nobbut’s men’s business yur.”

“And I had heard so much,” Mrs. Bünz said gently, “of the spirit of hospitality in this part of England. Zo! I was misinformed it seems. I have driven over two hundred —”