charmingly dressed head
and chirped when noticed, and she was generally noticed because of her
beauty. Now she chirped of Ceylon, where Malling had been, and then, more
vivaciously, of Parisian milliners, where she had been. From these allied
subjects Malling led her on to a slightly different topic--religion.

"I went to St. Joseph's last Sunday week," he presently said.

"St. who--what?" said Lady Mansford, who was busy with her
opera-glasses, and had just noticed that Lady Sindon, a bird-like
rival of hers, had changed the color of her hair, fortunately to
her--Lady Sindon's--disadvantage.

"To St. Joseph's, to hear your brother-in-law preach."

"It doesn't do at all," murmured Lady Mansford. "It makes her look
Chinese."

"You said--?"

"Mollie Sindon. But what were you talking about? Do tell me." She laid
down her glasses.

"I was saying that I went to church last Sunday week."

"Why?"

"To hear your brother-in-law preach at St. Joseph's."

"Marcus!" exclaimed Lady Mansford.

She pursed her lips.

"I don't go to St. Joseph's. Poor Sophy! I'm sorry for her."

"I lunched with Lady Sophia after the service."

"Did you? Isn't it sad?"

"Sad! I don't quite understand?" said Malling, interrogatively.

"The change in him. Of course people say it's drink. Such nonsense! But
they must say something, mustn't they?"

"Is Mr. Harding so very much changed?"

"Do you mean to say you didn't notice it?"

"I never met him till within the last fortnight."

"He's transformed--simply. He might have risen to anything, with his
energy, his ambition, and his connections. And now! But the worst of it
is no one can make out why it is. Even Sophia and Isinglass--my husband,
you know!--haven't an idea. And it gets worse every day. Last Sunday I
hear his sermon was too awful, a mere muddle of adjectives, such as one
hears in Hyde Park, I believe. I never liked Marcus particularly. I
always thought him too autocratic, too determined to dominate. He had
that poor little Mr. Chichester--his curate--completely under his thumb.
Mr. Chichester couldn't call his soul his own. He worshiped Marcus. But
now they say even he is beginning to think that his god is of clay. What
can it be? Do you think Marcus is losing his mind?"

"Oh, I should hope not," returned Malling, vaguely. "Has it been going on
long?"

"Oh, for quite a time. But it all seemed to come on gradually--as things
_do_, you know! Poor Sophy has always adored