ight streamed golden through the cathedral as Cecil
Rivington passed into its immense silence. He moved with quiet and
leisurely tread; it was not his way to hurry. The great clock was just
booming the hour.

There were not many people about. A few stray footsteps wandered through
the stillness, a few vague whispers floated to and fro. But the peace of
the place lay like a spell, a dream atmosphere in which every sound was
hushed.

Rivington passed down the nave till he reached the central space under
the great dome. There he paused, and gazed straight upwards into the
giddy height above him.

As he stood thus calmly contemplative, a light step sounded on the
pavement close to him, and a low voice spoke.

"Oh, here you are! It's good of you to be so punctual."

He lowered his eyes slowly as if he were afraid of giving them a shock,
and focussed them upon the speaker.

"I am never late," he remarked. "And I am never early."

Then he smiled kindly and held out his hand.

"Hullo, Chirpy!" he said. "It is Chirpy, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is Chirpy. But I never expected you to remember that."

"I remember most things," said Rivington.

His pale eyes dwelt contemplatively on the girl before him. She was very
slim and young, and plainly very nervous. There was no beauty about
Ernestine Cardwell, only a certain wild grace peculiarly charming, and a
quick wit that some people found too shrewd. When she laughed she was a
child. Her laugh was irresistible, and there was magic in her smile, a
baffling, elusive magic too transient to be defined. Very sudden and
very fleeting was her smile. Rivington saw it for an instant only as she
met his look.

"Do you know," she said, colouring deeply. "I thought you were much
older than you are."

"I am fifty," said Rivington.

But she shook her head.

"It is very good of you to say so."

"Not at all," smiled Rivington. "You, I fancy, must be about twenty-one.
How long since the bull episode?"

"Oh, do you remember that, too?" She uttered a faint laugh.

"Vividly," said Rivington. "I have a lively memory of the fleetness of
your retreat and the violence of your embrace when the danger was over."

She laughed again.

"It was years and years ago--quite six, I should think."

"Quite, I should say," agreed Rivington. "But we have met since then,
surely?"

"Oh yes, casually. But we are not in the same set, are we? Some one once
told me you were very Bohemian."

"Who was it