“No,” laughed Joan. “At least, I don’t think so.” She found him in the uniform of a French Colonel. He had quite a military bearing and seemed pleased with himself. He kissed her hand, and then held her out at arms’ length.!

She would not let him light the gas. “I have dined—in the train,” she explained. “Let us talk by the firelight.” She made her “good-night” extra affectionate, hoping to disguise her impatience. She wanted to get up to her own room.

“No,” the child answered. “Mama had a headache this morning, and I slipped out. You’re not keeping your promise.” Returning to the interior, Joan had duly admired the Cheyne monument, but had been unable to disguise her amusement before the tomb of Mrs. Colvile, whom the sculptor had represented as a somewhat impatient lady, refusing to await the day of resurrection, but pushing through her coffin and starting for Heaven in her grave-clothes. Pausing in front of the Dacre monument, Joan wondered if the actor of that name, who had committed suicide in Australia, and whose London address she remembered had been Dacre House just round the corner, was descended from the family; thinking that, if so, it would give an up-to-date touch to the article. She had fully decided now to write it. But Mary Stopperton could not inform her. They had ended up in the chapel of Sir Thomas More. He, too, had “given up things,” including his head. Though Mary Stopperton, siding with Father Morris, was convinced he had now got it back, and that with the remainder of his bones it rested in the tomb before them. A servant brought the coffee and went out again. Her father lighted a cigar and handed her the cigarettes.