"I wish you'd know something for a change," the husband grumbled.

The Frenchman ground his teeth in swollen sleep, exhaling himself upon
the stale air of the compartment. Maurice was turning over the pages of
a comic paper. Wedderburn snored. It was difficult to achieve
subordination of one's personality in the presence of other
personalities so insistently irritating.

Stella had not come back from Germany when Michael reached home, which
was a disappointment as he had looked forward to planning with her a
journey back to Spain as soon as possible. His mother during this
vacation had lapsed from Mental Science into an association to prevent
premature burial.

"My dearest boy, you have no idea of the numbers of people buried alive
every year," she said. "I have been talking to Dick Prescott about it. I
cannot understand his indifference. I intend to devote all my time to
it. We are going to organize a large bazaar next season. Banging their
foreheads against the coffins! It's dreadful to think of. Do be careful,
Michael. I have written a long letter to Stella explaining all the
precautions she ought to take. Who knows what may happen in Germany?
Such an impulsive nation. At least the Kaiser is. Don't laugh, my dear
boy, it's so much more serious than you think. Would you like to come
with me to Mrs. Carruthers' and hear some of the statistics? Gruesome,
but most instructive. At three o'clock. You needn't wait for tea, if
you're busy. The lecturer is an Eurasian. Where _is_ Eurasia, by the
by?"

Michael kissed his mother with affectionate amusement.

"Will you wear the mantilla I brought you from Spain? Look, it's as
light as burnt tissue paper."

"Dearest Michael," she murmured reproachfully, "you ought not to laugh
about sacred subjects.... I don't really see why we shouldn't have a
car. We must have a consultation with Dick Prescott."

After dinner that night Michael wrapped up some stained and faded
vestments he had brought for Viner and went off to see him at Netting
Hill. He told himself guiltily in the hansom that it was more than a
year since he had been to see old Viner, but the priest was so heartily
glad to welcome him and accepted so enthusiastically his propitiatory
gifts, that he felt as much at ease as ever in the smoke-hung room.

"Well, how's Oxford? I was coming up last term, but I couldn't get away.
Have you been to see Sandifer yet? Or Pallant at Cowley, or Canon
Harrowell?"

Michael said