Palace Yard, save for a statuesque policeman, was empty. “It will do him good,” answered Mrs. Phillips; “getting away from them all for an hour or two. I don’t see much of him myself.”!

The lonely woman touched her lightly on the hand. There shot a pleading look from the old stern eyes. The girl rose. “I must be getting back,” she said. “Dad will be wondering where I’ve got to.”

“The Cyril Baptiste,” he answered, in a low, even, passionate voice, that he flung at her almost like a blow. “The atheist, the gaol bird, the pariah, the blasphemer, the anti-Christ. I’ve hoofs instead of feet. Shall I take off my boots and show them to you? I tuck my tail inside my coat. You can’t see my horns. I’ve cut them off close to my head. That’s why I wear my hair long: to hide the stumps.” “Who among you is the more honoured? The miser or the giver: he who heaps up riches for himself or he who labours for others?” “The general opinion seems to be that his star is in the ascendant,” Madge answered with a smile; “that all things are working together for his good. It’s rather a useful atmosphere to have about one, that. It breeds friendship and support!”