t books, and her last batch of music, but looking most of
all at her, while Maulevrier and Mary were loafing on the lawn outside.

'What are you going to do with yourself this morning?' asked Maulevrier,
appearing suddenly at the window.

'Anything you like,' answered Hammond. 'Stay, there is one pilgrimage I
am eager to make. I must see Wordsworth's grave, and Wordsworth's
house.'

'You shall see them both, but they are in opposite directions--one at
your elbow, the other a four mile walk. Which will you see first? We'll
toss for it,' taking a shilling from a pocketful of loose cash, always
ready for moments of hesitation. 'Heads, house; tails, grave. Tails it
is. Come and have a smoke, and see the poet's grave. The splendour of
the monument, the exquisite neatness with which it is kept, will astound
you, considering that we live in a period of Wordsworth worship.'

Hammond hesitated, and looked at Lady Lesbia.

'Aren't you coming?' called Maulevrier from the lawn. 'It was a fair
offer. I've got my cigarette case.'

'Yes, I'm coming,' answered the other, with a disappointed air.

He had hoped that Lesbia would offer to show him the poet's grave. He
could not abandon that hope without a struggle.

'Will you come with us, Lady Lesbia? We'll suppress the cigarettes!'

'Thanks, no,' she said, becoming suddenly frigid. 'I am going to
practice.'

'Do you never walk in the morning--on such a lovely morning as this?'

'Not very often.'

She had re-entered those frozen regions from which his attentions had
lured him for a little while. She had reminded herself of the inferior
social position of this person, in whose conversation she had allowed
herself to be interested.

'_Filons_!' cried Maulevrier from below, and they went.

Mary would have very much liked to go with them, but she did not want to
be intrusive; so she went off to the kennels to see the terriers eat
their morning and only meal of dog biscuit.

CHAPTER VIII.

THERE IS ALWAYS A SKELETON.

The two young men strolled through the village, Maulevrier pausing to
exchange greetings with almost everyone he met, and so to the rustic
churchyard, above the beck.

The beck was swollen with late rains, and was brawling merrily over its
stony bed; the churchyard grass was deep and cool and shadowy under the
clustering branches. The poet's tomb was disappointing in its unlovely
simplicity, its stern, slatey hue. The plainest granite cross would ha