her uncle or guardian. Nor had she hypocritically affected the reverse,
as ductile women do, when they feel wanting in force to do the other.
She was not unlike Nevil's marquise in face, he thought: less foreign of
course; looking thrice as firm. Both were delicately featured.

He had a dream.

It was of an interminable procession of that odd lot called the People.
All of them were quarrelling under a deluge. One party was for
umbrellas, one was against them: and sounding the dispute with a question
or two, Everard held it logical that there should be protection from the
wet: just as logical on the other hand that so frail a shelter should be
discarded, considering the tremendous downpour. But as he himself was
dry, save for two or three drops, he deemed them all lunatics. He
requested them to gag their empty chatter-boxes, and put the mother upon
that child's cry.

He was now a simple unit of the procession. Asking naturally whither
they were going, he saw them point. 'St. Paul's,' he heard. In his own
bosom it was, and striking like the cathedral big bell.

Several ladies addressed him sorrowfully. He stood alone. It had become
notorious that he was to do battle, and no one thought well of his
chances. Devil an enemy to be seen! he muttered. Yet they said the
enemy was close upon him. His right arm was paralyzed. There was the
enemy hard in front, mailed, vizored, gauntleted. He tried to lift his
right hand, and found it grasping an iron ring at the bottom of the deep
Steynham well, sunk one hundred feet through the chalk. But the
unexampled cunning of his left arm was his little secret; and, acting
upon this knowledge, he telegraphed to his first wife at Steynham that