afternoon,
of something poignant almost, though lightly veiled with the sparkling
gossamer which serves to conceal undue angularities, something which
just hinted at tragedy confronted with courage, at the attempted stab
and the raised shield of affection. Here Mrs. Clarke was in sanctuary.
He glanced towards her again with a deepening interest.

"Canon Wilton's coming in presently," said Mrs. Chetwinde. "He's
preaching at St. Paul's this afternoon, or perhaps it's Westminster
Abbey--something of that kind."

"I've heard him two or three times," answered Dion, who was on very
good, though not on very intimate, terms with Canon Wilton. "I'd rather
hear him than anybody."

"In the pulpit--yes, I suppose so. I'm scarcely an amateur of sermons.
He's a volcano of sincerity, and never sends out ashes. It's all red-hot
lava. Have you met Cynthia Clarke?"

"No."

"She's over there, echoing my Echo. Would you like----?"

"Very much indeed."

"Then I'll--"

An extremely pale man, with long, alarmingly straight hair and wandering
eyes almost the color of silver, said something to her.

"Watteau? Oh, no--he died in 1721, not in 1722," she replied. "The only
date I can never remember is William the Conqueror. But of course you
couldn't remember about Watteau. It's distance makes memory. You're too
near."

"That's the fan painter, Murphy-Elphinston, Watteau's reincarnation,"
she added to Dion. "He's always asking questions about himself.
Cynthia--this is Mr. Dion Leith. He wishes----" She drifted away, not,
however, without dexterously managing to convey Mr. Darlington with her.

Dion found himself looking into the large, distressed eyes of Mrs.
Clarke. Daventry was standing close to her, but, with a glance at his
friend, moved away.

"I should like to sit down," said Mrs. Clarke.

"Here are two chairs----"

"No, I'd rather sit over there under the Della Robbia. I can see Echo
from there."

She walked very slowly and languidly, as if tired, to a large and low
sofa covered with red, which was exactly opposite to the statuette.
Dion followed her, thinking about her age. He supposed her to be about
thirty-two or thirty-three, possibly a year or two more or less. She was
very simply dressed in a gray silk gown with black and white lines in
it. The tight sleeves of it were unusually long and ended in points.
They were edged with some transparent white material which rested
against her small hands.

She sat down and