Niagara of the Infinite."

There was the sound of feet on the stairs. Mr. Barbecue-Smith
got up, laid his hand for an instant on Denis's shoulder, and
said:

"No more now. Another time. And remember, I rely absolutely on
your discretion in this matter. There are intimate, sacred
things that one doesn't wish to be generally known."

"Of course," said Denis. "I quite understand."


CHAPTER VII.

At Crome all the beds were ancient hereditary pieces of
furniture. Huge beds, like four-masted ships, with furled sails
of shining coloured stuff. Beds carved and inlaid, beds painted
and gilded. Beds of walnut and oak, of rare exotic woods. Beds
of every date and fashion from the time of Sir Ferdinando, who
built the house, to the time of his namesake in the late
eighteenth century, the last of the family, but all of them
grandiose, magnificent.

The finest of all was now Anne's bed. Sir Julius, son to Sir
Ferdinando, had had it made in Venice against his wife's first
lying-in. Early seicento Venice had expended all its extravagant
art in the making of it. The body of the bed was like a great
square sarcophagus. Clustering roses were carved in high relief
on its wooden panels, and luscious putti wallowed among the