ou know, I suppose, that men who
tattoo each other's arms can't quarrel if they try?" Arthur showed
"A. Palliser," tattooed blue on his arm. Both young men were very grave
and earnest about the safeguard. And then she remembered a question she
asked, and how both replied with perfect gravity: "Of course, sure to!"
The question had been:--Was it invariable that all men quarrelled if
one saved the other from drowning?

She sits upstairs alone by the fire in her bedroom, and dreams again
through all the past, except the nightmare of her life--_that_ she
always shudders away from. Sally will come up presently, and then she
will feel ease again. Now, it is a struggle against fever.

She can hear plainly enough--for the house is but a London suburban
villa--the strains from the drawing-room of what is possibly the most
hackneyed violin music in the world--the Tartini (so-called) Devil
Sonata--every phrase, every run, every chord an enthralling mystery
still, an utterance none can explain, an inexhaustible thing no age can
wither, and no custom stale. It is so soothing to her that it matters
little if it makes them late. But that young man will destroy his
nerves to a certainty outright.

Then comes the chaos of dispersal--the broken fragments of the
intelligible a watchful ear may pick out. Dr. Vereker won't have a cab;
he will leave the 'cello till next time, and walk. Mr. Bradshaw wants
to get to Bayswater. Of course, that's all in our way--we being Miss
Wilson and the cousin, the nonentity. We can give Mr. Bradshaw a lift
as far as he goes, and then he can take the growler on. Then more
good-nights are wished than the nature of things will admit of before
to-morrow, Fenwick and Vereker light something to smoke, with a
preposterous solicitude to use only one tandsticker between them, and
walk away umbrella-less. From which we see that "it" is holding up.
Then comes silence, and a consciousness of a policeman musing, and
suspecting doors have been left stood open.

And it was then Sally went upstairs and indited her friend for sitting
on that sofa after calling him a shop-boy. And she didn't forget it,
either, for after she and her mother were in bed, and presumably
better, she called out to her.

"I say, mammy!"

"What, dear?"

"Isn't that St. John's Church?"

"Isn't which St. John's Church?"

"Where Tishy goes?"

"Yes, Ladbroke Grove Road. Why?"

"Because now Mr. Bradshaw will go there--public worship!"

"