not understand your conduct. Why have you changed your name?"

"Why not?"

This retort was so evidently unanswerable that Lady Alicia changed her
inquiry.

"Where have you been?"

"Till yesterday, in London."

"Then you didn't go to your own parish?" she demanded, reproachfully.

"There were difficulties," he replied; "in fact, a certified lunatic is
not in great demand as a parish priest. They seem to prefer them
uncertified."

"But didn't you try?"

"Hard, but it was no use. The bishop was out of town, and I had to wait
till his return; besides, my position was somewhat insecure. I have had at
least two remarkable escapes since I saw you last."

"Are you safe here?" she asked, hurriedly.

"With your consent, yes."

She looked a little troubled. "I don't know that I am doing right, Mr
Bev--Bunker, but----"

"Thank you, my friend," he interrupted, tenderly.

"Don't," she began, hastily. "You mustn't talk like----"

"Francis Beveridge?" he interrupted. "The trouble is, this rascal Bunker
bears an unconscionably awkward resemblance to our old friend."

"You must see that it is quite--ridiculous."

"Absurd," he agreed,--"perfectly preposterous. I laugh whenever I think of
it!"

Poor Lady Alicia felt like a man at a telephone who has been connected
with the wrong person. Again she made a desperate shift to fall back on a
becoming pride.

"What do you mean?" she demanded.

"If I mean anything at all, which is always rather doubtful," he replied,
candidly, "I mean that Beveridge and his humbug were creatures of an
occasion, just as Bunker and his are of another. The one occasion is
passed, and with it the first entertaining gentleman has vanished into
space. The second gentleman will doubtless follow when his time is up. In
fact, I may be said to be a series of dissolving views."

"Then isn't what you said true?"

"I'm afraid you must be more specific; you see I've talked so much."

"What you said about yourself--and your work."

He shook his head humorously. "I have no means of checking my statements."

She looked at him in a troubled way, and then her eyes fell.

"At least," she said, "you won't--you mustn't treat me as--as you did."

"As Beveridge did? Certainly not; Bunker is the soul of circumspection.
Besides, he doesn't require to get out of an asylum."

"Then it was only to get away?" she cried, turning scarlet.

"Let us call it so," he replied, looking pensively out to sea.

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