A splendidly spired church stood almost shoulder to shoulder with the
Ashton-Kirk house. Once it had been a place of dignified Episcopal
worship; but years of neglect had made it unwholesome and cavern-like;
and finally it was given over to a tribe of stolid Lithuanians who
stuck a cheaply gilded Greek cross over the door and thronged the
street with their wedding and christening processions.

"Perhaps," said Ashton-Kirk, after a moment's study of the prospect,
"yes, perhaps it _is_ a hole of a place in which to live. But you see
we've had this house since shortly after the Revolution; four
generations have been born here. As I have no fashionable wife and I
live alone, I am content to stay. Then, the house suits me; everything
is arranged to my taste. The environment may not be the most
desirable; but, my visitors are seldom of the sort that object to
externals."

"Well, you have one just now who is not what you might call partial to
such neighborhoods," said Pendleton. "And," looking at his watch, "you
will shortly have another who will be, perhaps, still less favorably
impressed."

"Ah!" said Ashton-Kirk.

He curled himself up upon the deep window sill while Pendleton went
back to his chair and the tobacco.

"It's a lady," resumed Pendleton, the brown paper crackling between
his fingers, "a lady of condition, quality and beauty."

"It sounds pleasant enough," smiled the other. "But why is she