urely that's a _church_?'

'Yes,' said Geraldine. 'It is a very good one. I have belonged to the
Church of England all my life.'

'Not High, I hope,' said Aunt Annie.

'Certainly, High.'

The beneficent Providence which always watched over Henry, watched over
him then. A gong resounded through the flat, and stopped the
conversation. Geraldine put her lips together.

'There's the dressing-bell, dearest,' said she, controlling herself.

'I won't dress to-night,' Henry replied feebly. 'I'm not equal to it.
You go. I'll stop with mother and auntie.'

'Don't you fret yourself, mater,' he said as soon as the chatelaine had
left them. 'Sir George has gone to live at Redhill, and given up his pew
at Great Queen Street. I shall return to the old place and take it.'

'I am very glad,' said Mrs. Knight. 'Very glad.'

'And Geraldine?' Aunt Annie asked.

'Leave me to look after the little girl,' said Henry. He then dozed for
a few moments.

The dinner, with the Arctic lamps dotted about the table, and two
servants to wait, began in the most stately and effective fashion
imaginable. But it had got no further than the host's first spoonful of
_soupe aux moules_, when the host rose abruptly, and without a word
departed from the room.

The sisters nodded to each other with the cheerful gloom of prophetesses
who find themselves in the midst of a disaster which they have
predicted.

'You poor, foolish boy!' exclaimed Geraldine, running after Henry. She
was adorably attired in white.

* * * * *

The clash of creeds was stilled in the darkened and sumptuous chamber,
as the three women bent with murmurous affection over the bed on which
lay, swathed in a redolent apparatus of eau-de-Cologne and fine linen,
their hope and the hope of English literature. Towards midnight, when
the agony had somewhat abated, Mrs. Knight and Aunt Annie reluctantly
retired in a coupe which Geraldine had ordered for them by telephone.

And in the early June dawn Henry awoke, refreshed and renewed, full of
that languid but genuine interest in mortal things which is at once the
compensation and the sole charm of a dyspepsy. By reaching out an arm he
could just touch the hand of his wife as she slept in her twin couch. He
touched it; she awoke, and they exchanged the morning smile.

'I'm glad that's over,' he said.

But whether he meant the _marrons glaces_ or the first visit of his
beloved elders to the glorious