d then it would be too late to turn tail.

I had just begun to call the little town of St. Gilles an "ugly hole,"
and wonder what St. Louis saw to love in it, when, coming out of a
squalid, hilly street through which I had tried to pick my way on foot,
alone, suddenly the facade of the wonderful old church burst upon my
sight, a vision of beauty.

No self-respecting motor-car would have condescended to trust itself in
such a street, and as a rabble of small male St. Gillesites swarmed
round the Aigle when she stopped at the beginning of the ascent, Mr.
Dane had to play guardian angel. "I've been here before," he said, as
usual, for this whole tour seems to be a twice-told tale for him. A few
days ago I should have pitied him aloud for not being able to blow the
dust off his old impressions; but now, when he speaks of past
experiences, I think: "Oh, I wonder if this is another place associated
in his mind with that _horrid_ woman?" For on mature deliberation I have
definitely niched her among the Horrors in my mental museum. In front of
me walked Sir Samuel and Lady Turnour, whose very backs cried out their
loathing of St. Gilles; but abruptly the expression of their shoulders
changed; they had seen the facade, and even they could not help feeling
vaguely that it must be unique in the world, that of its kind nothing
could be more beautiful.

That was before I saw it, for a respectful distance must be maintained
between Those Who Pay and Those Who Work; but I guessed from the backs
that something extraordinary was about to be revealed. Then it was
revealed, and I would have given a good deal to have some one to whom I
could exclaim "Isn't it glorious!"

Still, I am luckily very good chums with myself, and it is never too
much trouble to think out new adjectives for my own benefit, or to
indicate quaint points of view. I was soon making the best of my own
society in the way of intelligent companionship, shaking crumbs of
half-forgotten history out of my memory, and finding a dried currant of
fact here and there. In convent days there was hardly a saint or
saintess with whom I hadn't a bowing acquaintance, and although a good
many have cut me since, I can generally recall something about them, if
necessary, as title worshippers can about the aristocracy. I thought
hard for a minute, and suddenly up rolled a curtain in my mind, and
there in his niche stood St. Gilles. He was born in Athens, and was a
most highly connecte