that we young Englishmen should be familiar with every music-hall in
London and should know so little of this which is the centre of the
British race, the most august and tremendous monument that ever a
nation owned. Six hundred years ago the English looked upon it as
their holiest and most national shrine, and since then our kings and
our warriors and our thinkers and our poets have all been laid there,
until there is such an accumulation that the huge Abbey has hardly
space for another monument. Let us spend an hour inside it.'

They made for Solomon's porch, since it was the nearest and they had
but the one umbrella. Under its shelter they brushed themselves dry
before they entered.

'Whom does the Abbey belong to, Frank?'

'To you and me!'

'Now you are joking!'

'Not at all. It belongs in the long-run to the British taxpayer.
You have heard the story of the Scotch visitor who came on board one
of our battleships and asked to see the captain. "Who shall I say?"
said the sentry. "One of the proprietors," said the Scotchman.
That's OUR position towards the Abbey. Let us inspect our property.'

They were smiling as they entered, but the smile faded from their
lips as the door closed behind them. In this holy of holies, this
inner sanctuary of the race, there was a sense of serene and
dignified solemnity which would have imposed itself upon the most
thoughtless. Frank and Maude stood in mute reverence. The high