“From thirteen——” “An orphan?” “Preferably.” “I will discuss the affair presently with my wife,” Canon Sinquier said, turning in meditation his steps towards the wicket-gate. “Before leaving your charming city, Canon, I should like beyond everything to visit the episcopal Palace: Sally used often to speak of the art-treasures there.” “Art-treasures?” “Old pictures!” “Are you an amateur of old pictures?” “Indeed I am. My husband once—Paul—he paid a perfect fortune for a Dutch painting; and will you believe me, Canon! It was only of the back view of a horse.” “A Cuyp?” “A Circus—with straw-knots in its tail. It used to hang in Mr. Sixsmith’s study; and there it always was! Frankly,” she added, brushing a black kid glove to her face, “I used sometimes to wish it would kick.” “If you’re remaining here any length of time, there are some portraits at the Deanery that are considered to be of interest, I believe.” “Portraits!” “Old ecclesiastical ones.” “Oh, Canon?” “Perhaps you would come quietly to dinner. At which of our inns are you?” “I’m at the Antelope.” “I know that my girl would have wished our house to be open to you. You were her friend. Her champion....” “Dear Canon—don’t ... don’t: You mustn’t! She’s at peace. Nothing can fret her. Nothing shall fret her ... ever now. And, you know, as a manageress, she was liable to vast vexations.” “My poor pet.” “She’s _hors de combat_: free from a calculating and dishonest world; ah, Canon!” “We shall expect you, then, dear Sally’s friend, to dinner this evening at eight,” Canon Sinquier murmured as he walked away. Mrs. Sixsmith put up a large chiffon sunshade and hovered staccato before the dwindling spires and ogee dome of S. Irene. It was one of the finest days imaginable. The sun shone triumphantly in the midst of a cloudless sky. She would loiter awhile among the bougainvilleas and dark, spreading laurels of the Cathedral green, trespassing obtusely now and then into quiet gardens, through tall wrought-iron gates. New visions and possibilities rare rose in her mind. With Sally still, she could do a lot. Through her she would be received with honours, into the courtly circles of the Close. Those fine palatial houses, she reflected, must be full of wealth ... old Caroline plate and gorgeous green Limoges: Sally indeed had proved it! The day she had opened her heart in the Café Royal she had spoken of a massive tureen _too heavy even to hold._ Mrs. Sixsmith’s eyes grew big. Her lost friend’s father wished for anecdotes; anecdotes of her “broken brilliance”; he should have them. She saw herself indulging him with “Salliana,” wrapped in a white lace mantilla of old Mechlin lace. An invitation from Canon and Mrs. Sinquier should be adroitly played for to-night: “And once in the house!...” she schemed, starting as a peacock, a symbol of S. Irene, stretched from a bougainvillea shrouded wall its sapphire neck at her as if to peck. Her thoughts raced on.