hands. They filed out of the chapel in silence. Amongst them were
the two little old ladies of the Pension Bertolini--Miss Teresa
and Miss Catherine Alan.

"Stop!" cried Mr. Emerson. "There's plenty of room for us all.
Stop!"

The procession disappeared without a word.

Soon the lecturer could be heard in the next chapel, describing
the life of St. Francis.

"George, I do believe that clergyman is the Brixton curate."

George went into the next chapel and returned, saying "Perhaps he
is. I don't remember."

"Then I had better speak to him and remind him who I am. It's
that Mr. Eager. Why did he go? Did we talk too loud? How
vexatious. I shall go and say we are sorry. Hadn't I better? Then
perhaps he will come back."

"He will not come back," said George.

But Mr. Emerson, contrite and unhappy, hurried away to apologize
to the Rev. Cuthbert Eager. Lucy, apparently absorbed in a
lunette, could hear the lecture again interrupted, the anxious,
aggressive voice of the old man, the curt, injured replies of his
opponent. The son, who took every little contretemps as if it
were a tragedy, was listening also.