"There are exceptions to every rule," snapped the Lion.

"Oh," sn.i.g.g.e.red the Griffin, "then it does apply even to me, for I myself am an exception. There is only one of me," ended the Griffin eagerly, "only one in all London."

"Some things don't bear repeating," said the Lion.

The Griffin's weak memory came to his aid at this awkward moment:

"That must particularly apply to your last remark," simpered the Griffin.

"You have heard somebody else say that," objected the Lion.

"True," sn.i.g.g.e.red the Griffin, "and it will not be the first time that the remembrance of other people's sayings have pa.s.sed for wit; and I have always so longed to be a wit," sighed the Griffin. "Don't you think, Lal, that I might one day be a wit?" inquired the Griffin anxiously.

"No," said the Lion, "I don't; you have none of the necessary qualifications."

Once again the Griffin's mouth trembled piteously.

"Oh, Lal," implored the Griffin, "think, only think again."

"I couldn't," answered the Lion, "some things don't bear thinking about."

The Griffin, with two tears trembling in his eyes, clasped his flannel-wrapped foreclaws together beseechingly and changed the nature of his supplication:

"Very well, Lal, then perhaps as you have never seen me act, I might arrange some theatricals and amuse the children and the company present. Of course," simpered the Griffin, "I should play the chief funny part myself; wouldn't it be wonderful if I played the chief funny part myself?"

The Lion looked at the Griffin contemplatively for a second: "You will never be funnier than you are now," remarked the Lion, "and we are not going to have any theatricals at all, the children are going to dance."

"The very thing," agreed the Griffin. "I will lead them; I dance so beautifully."

"No," said the Lion firmly, "if any one leads them it will be Carry-on-Merry, but they won't want any leading at all. The best thing you can do is to keep quite quiet and make yourself useful."

"Oh, Lal, don't ask me to be useful," shuddered the Griffin. "It is such a dreadful word, and _anybody_ can be useful."

"You think so," said the Lion, as he smiled his wisest smile.

"I must be something far better than that," remonstrated the Griffin, "and it has just struck me that I had better go round and find out from everybody what they would like me to do," and the Griffin moved off eagerly to gather the opinions of everybody present as to this most interesting point which concerned him so closely.

"Always dying to show off," grunted the Lion. "You can see in the Griffin the absolute type of one who being weak in the head and totally unable to do anything, is nevertheless always longing to show off before others, who are cleverer than himself."

"Perhaps he will find somebody who wants him to do something,"

suggested Ridgwell, hopefully; "but why didn't he want to be useful?"

"Because the poor Griffin believes himself to be extremely ornamental, and therefore, like all conceited people, he will never be able to see himself as he is in reality. He wishes to lead before he has been able to learn."

Carry-on-Merry, Gamble, Grin, and Grub had by this time fixed up a strangely decorated Maypole; it was nothing less than St. George's Pillar, but so bedecked with hanging flowers and brilliant silken corded ribbons that the children had some difficulty in recognising it again.

Then the four laughing lions could be seen racing along with a most wonderful piano-organ, into which Gamble, Grin, and Grub were harnessed, whilst Carry-on-Merry turned the handle.

It must at once be admitted that this particular musical instrument differed very considerably from any piano-organ ever heard in the streets, and it could never have come anywhere from the neighbourhood of Saffron Hill.

It discoursed the sweetest music in the nature of a dance tune that was irresistible, and the feet of all the children present started in time to it simultaneously.

"Now, Ridgwell," said the Lion, "take Christine and dance with her. Or would you sooner stay here and look on at the sight?"

"I shall do both," a.s.serted Ridgwell, "dance first and look on afterwards."

"Good," a.s.sented the Lion; "an able definition of eating your cake and having it at the same time. Off you go then."

"Won't the Kings, Boadicea, and St. George dance too?" asked Christine.

"No, George doesn't dance," said the Lion, "neither do the Royalty; they graciously look on. I don't dance either, I do not consider it dignified, so I sit here, conduct the ceremony, and beat time to the music with my paw."

That dance was the wildest, gladdest, merriest thing the children ever remembered, and the threads of golden light filtering through the flash of the coloured costumes as they wound in and out, added tints of splendour as of an ancient pageant.

Who could keep from dancing to such an exquisite tune, and who could help being glad when ropes of lovely flowers were being twined round lovelier childish faces, flower-like themselves, flushed with gay excitement, with perfect health, with gladness?

Ribbons of changing light they threaded in and out, round and through, no one could tell how many times, and over all the golden scented dew of perfect health and beauty fell from the two fountains upon the up-turned faces.

It is true the Griffin made several ineffectual attempts to break through the laughing, whirling ring, under the impression that the circle was incomplete without him, but Gamble, Grin, and Grub were always at hand to pull him back, and prevent this amiable but mistaken intrusion.

From the piano-organ which he turned so gaily, Carry-on-Merry found it was necessary to caution the Griffin after his last frantic attempt to break through the ring of dancing children.

"I want to dance," urged the Griffin.

"I think you want a keeper," grinned Carry-on-Merry, "or a policeman or something, to keep you in order."

The Griffin turned pale.

"Oh! no," implored the Griffin, "not a _policeman_."

"Well, then, behave," grinned Carry-on-Merry.

"Very well," sulked the Griffin, "as I am not wanted I think I shall go home and give a party to myself."

"Don't go," grinned Carry-on-Merry, "I have thought of something you could do presently."

The Griffin flushed with delight.

"Will it be something grand?" asked the Griffin breathlessly, "something that will show me off, something that will make me talked about, something so big that it won't be like anything else?"

"Rather," grinned Carry-on-Merry; "you bet it won't be like anything else, at least," added Carry-on-Merry truthfully, "it won't be like anything else I have ever known."

"Oh, thank you, thank you," gushed the Griffin. "I could swoon with joy, I feel so overwrought that I shall go to one of the fountains and ask the dear Dolphins for some light refreshment."

"No, you don't," instantly objected Carry-on-Merry, "the dance is nearly over, and the children are all going there immediately; you would only be in the way, but," added Carry-on-Merry, with a wicked twinkle in his eyes, "I have a much finer idea than that."

"Really?" inquired the Griffin. "Really a fine idea?"

"Ripping," responded Carry-on-Merry, as he mysteriously produced from an inside pocket of his royal scarlet coat a big white damask dinner napkin.