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the South Dales which was the lordship of Markind. They never gave shows in Markind. Brid’s dislike of Kialan came to a head while Olob was patiently dragging the cart up and down the steep little hills of this lordship. The reason was that Clennen, who never disdained an audience, began to explain to Kialan exactly why he always hurried through Markind without giving a performance.
    â€œI took Lenina from here, you see,” he said. “From the very middle of Markind, out of the Lord’s own hall. Didn’t I, Lenina?”
    â€œYou did,” said Lenina. She always looked very noncommittal whenever Clennen told this story.
    â€œShe was betrothed to the Lord’s son. What was his name? Pennan—that was it. And a wet young idiot he was, too,” Clennen said reminiscently. “I was asked in to sing at the betrothal—I had quite a name, even in those days, and I was a good deal in demand for occasions like that, let me tell you. Well, no sooner did I come into the hall and set eyes on Lenina than I knew she was the woman for me. Wasted on that idiot Fenner. That was his name, wasn’t it, Lenina?”
    â€œHe was called Ganner,” said Lenina.
    â€œOh, yes,” said Clennen. “I remember he reminded me of a goose somehow. It must have been the name. I’d thought it was his scraggy neck or those button eyes of his. Anyway, I thought I’d rely on my looks being better than his and deal with Master Gosler later. For the first thing, I concentrated on Lenina. I sang—I’ve never sung better, before or since—and Lenina here couldn’t take her eyes off me. Well, I don’t blame her, because I don’t mind admitting that I was a fine-looking man in those days, and gifted, too—which Flapper wasn’t. So I asked Lenina in a song whether she’d marry me instead of this Honker fellow, and when I came up to get my reward for my singing, she said yes. So then I dealt with him. I turned to him. ‘Lording,’ I said, most respectful, ‘Lording, what gift will you give me?’ And he said ‘Anything you want. You’re a great singer’—which was the only sensible thing he said that evening. So I said, ‘I’ll take what you have in your right hand.’ He was holding Lenina’s hand, you see. I still laugh when I think of the look on his face.”
    While the story went on—and it made a long one, for Clennen went over it several times, embroidering the details—Brid and Moril walked by the roadside out of earshot, watching the fed-up look settle on Kialan’s face. They had both heard the story more times than they could remember.
    â€œI suppose the thing about being a singer is that you like telling the same story a hundred times,” Brid said rather acidly. “But you’d think Father would remember Ganner’s name by this time.”
    â€œThat’s all part of it,” said Moril. “I always wonder,” he added dreamily, “what would happen if we met Ganner while we were going through Markind. Would he arrest Father?”
    â€œOf course he wouldn’t,” said Brid. “I don’t suppose it’s true, anyway. And even if it did happen, Ganner must have grown into a big fat lord by now and forgotten Mother ever existed.”
    Since this was Brid’s true opinion of the matter, it was a little unreasonable of her to be so angry when she found Kialan shared it. But one is seldom reasonable when one dislikes someone. They stopped for lunch, and Clennen, thoroughly in his stride, went on embroidering the story.
    â€œLenina’s a real lady,” he said, leaning comfortably against the pink and scarlet wheel of the cart. “She’s Tholian’s niece, you know. But he cast her off for running away with me. And it was all my fault for playing that trick on Gander. ‘Lording,’ I said to him, ‘give me what you have in your