t
the time Henry VIII. was cutting off pretty ladies' heads when he had
tired of their hearts. Several tombs are so lovely, you almost want to
be dead, and have one as like as possible; but, though part of the
cathedral is satisfyingly old (eleventh century), its new spire reminds
one of a badly chosen hat, and the whole building somehow looks cold and
dull, like a person with a magnificent profile who never says anything
illuminating.

[Illustration: "_The jewel of a market cross_"]

As for Chichester itself, except the market cross, the only thing that
has touched my heart was St. Mary's Hospital, surely the quaintest old
almshouse on earth. The town has rather a self-conceited air to me, and
unless one were wise, one mightn't realize without being informed that
it's immemorably old. Of course, though, if one _were_ wise, one would
know the Romans had had a hand in the making or re-making of it, because
of the geometric, regular way in which it's built. Sir Lionel Pendragon
told me that. He seems to remember all he ever learned, whereas ever so
many little bundles are already knocking about in dusty corners of my
brain, with their labels lost.

There couldn't be a more thrilling road than the road along which we
came to Chichester, and by which we will leave it in a few minutes now.
Think of Roman Stane Street, and listen for the rumble of ghostly
chariot wheels! Then--if you've not come this way for Goodwood
races--you can throw your mind a little further ahead to the days of the
crusaders and the pilgrims; and to kings' processions glittering with
gold and glossy with velvets; to armies on their way to fight; and
further ahead, to coaches plying along the Portsmouth road. I wonder how
many people in the hundreds of motors that flash back and forth each day
do think of it all? I pity those who don't, because they lose a thought
that might embroider their world with rich colours.

P.P.S.--I met Sir Lionel, accidentally, of course, in the cathedral this
morning, where he, too, was saying good-bye to the most fascinating of
the old tombs. And wasn't it odd, we had the same favourites? They
looked even nicer and queerer than yesterday, with no Mrs. Norton to
spatter inappropriate remarks about.

We walked back to the hotel together, and he asked me, just as we were
coming in, whether my allowance was enough, or would I like to have
more?

I had burst out that it was heaps, before I stopped to realize that he
was