Under the little old lime trees by the Cathedral door lounged Lady Caroline Dempsey’s Catholic footman. Miss Sinquier considered him. In her mind’s eye she saw the impression her own conversion would make in the parochial world. “Canon Sinquier’s only daughter has gone over to Rome....” Or, “Canon Sinquier’s daughter has taken the veil.” Or, “Miss Sinquier, having suffered untold persecution at the hands of her family, has been received into the Convent of the Holy Dove.” Her eyes strayed leisurely from the powdered head and weeping shoulder-knots of Lady Caroline Dempsey’s Catholic footman. The lack of movement was oppressive. Why was not Miss Worrall in her customary collapse being borne senseless to her Gate in the Sacristan’s arms? And why to-night were they not chaunting the Psalms? Darting out her tongue, Miss Sinquier withdrew her head and resumed her book. “Pouf!” She shook her fan. The room would soon be dark. From the grey-toned walls, scriptural, a _Sasso Sassi_ frowned. “In all these fruitful years,” she read, “the only instance he is recorded to have smiled was at a great rat running in and out among some statues.... _He_ was the Ideal Hamlet. Morose of countenance, and cynical by nature, his outbursts, at times, would completely freeze the company.” Miss Sinquier passed her finger-tips lightly across her hair. “Somehow it makes no difference,” she murmured, turning towards a glass. To feign Ophelia—no matter what! She pulled about her a lace Manilla shawl. It was as though it were Andalusia whenever she wrapped it on. “_Dona Rosarda!_” “_Fernan Perez? What do you want?_” “_Ravishing Rosarda, I need you._” “_I am the wife of Don José Cuchillo—the Moor._” “_Dona Rosarda Castilda Cuchillo, I love you._” “_Sh——! My husband will be back directly._” Stretched at ease before a pier-glass, Miss Sinquier grew enthralled. An hour sped by. The room was almost dark. Don José would wish his revenge. “_Rosarda._” “_Fernando?_” “_Ah-h!_” Miss Sinquier got up. She must compose herself for dinner—wash off the blood. Poor Fernan! She glanced about her, a trifle Spanish still. From a clothes-peg something hanging seemed to implore. “To see me? Why, bless you. Yes!” With an impetuous, pretty gesture she flung it upon a couch. “How do I like America?” “I adore it.... You see ... I’ve lost my heart here—! Tell them so—oh! especially to the men.... Whereabouts was I born? In Westmorland; yes. _In England, Sir!_ Inquisitive? Why not at all: I was born in the sleepy peaceful town of Applethorp (three p’s), in the inmost heart—right in the very middle,” Miss Sinquier murmured, tucking a few field flowers under her chin, “of the _Close._” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ II “SALLY,” her father said, “I could not make out where you sat at Vespers, child, to-night.”