eo da Poggibonsi, an Amico di Taddeo, and four or five
nameless Sienese--to the Americans. There was a crisis. For the first
time in his life Henry asserted himself, and with good effect, it
seemed.

Priscilla's gay and gadding existence had come to an abrupt end.
Nowadays she spent almost all her time at Crome, cultivating a rather
ill-defined malady. For consolation she dallied with New Thought and the
Occult. Her passion for racing still possessed her, and Henry, who was a
kind-hearted fellow at bottom, allowed her forty pounds a month betting
money. Most of Priscilla's days were spent in casting the horoscopes
of horses, and she invested her money scientifically, as the stars
dictated. She betted on football too, and had a large notebook in which
she registered the horoscopes of all the players in all the teams of
the League. The process of balancing the horoscopes of two elevens one
against the other was a very delicate and difficult one. A match between
the Spurs and the Villa entailed a conflict in the heavens so vast and
so complicated that it was not to be wondered at if she sometimes made a
mistake about the outcome.

"Such a pity you don't believe in these things, Denis, such a pity,"
said Mrs. Wimbush in her deep, distinct voice.

"I can't say I feel it so."

"Ah, that's because you don't know what it's like to have faith. You've
no idea how amusing and exciting life becomes when you do believe. All
that happens means something; nothing you do is ever insignificant. It
makes life so jolly, you know. Here am I at Crome. Dull as ditchwater,
you'd think; but no, I don't find it so. I don't regret the Old Days
a bit. I have the Stars..." She picked up the sheet of paper that was
lying on the blotting-pad. "Inman's horoscope," she explained. "(I
thought I'd like to have a little fling on the billiards championship
this autumn.) I have the Infinite to keep in tune with," she waved her
hand. "And then there's the next world and all the spirits, and one's
Aura, and Mrs. Eddy and saying you're not ill, and the Christian
Mysteries and Mrs. Besant. It's all splendid. One's never dull for a
moment. I can't think how I used to get on before--in the Old Days.
Pleasure--running about, that's all it was; just running about. Lunch,
tea, dinner, theatre, supper every day. It was fun, of course, while it
lasted. But there wasn't much left of it afterwards. There's rather a
good thing about that in Barbecue-Smith's new book