The Saunders’ Fifeshire bull, one New Year’s night, ravaging the Close, driven frantic by the pealings of the bells. The time poor Dixon got drowned—at a Flower Show, a curate’s eyes—a German governess’s walk—a mould of calves-foot-jelly she had let fall in the Cathedral once, on her way somewhere— She replaced ruefully her pearls. What else? Her artist fingers hovered. Mere bridesmaid’s rubbish; such frightful frippery. She turned her thoughts to the room. Over the bed, an antique Bush-knife of barbaric shape supposed to have been _Abraham’s_, was quite a collector’s piece. It might be offered to some museum perhaps. The Nation ought to have it.... She sighed shortly. And downstairs in the butler’s room there were possessions of hers, besides. What of those Apostle spoons, and the two-pronged forks, and the chased tureen? Leonard frequently had said it took the best part of a day to polish her plate alone. And to go away and leave it all! “Oh God, help me, Dear,” she prayed. “This little once, Oh Lord! For Thou knowest my rights....” She waited. Why did not an angel with a basket of silver appear? “Oh, well....” Gripper, no doubt, would suspect something odd if she asked for her things “to play with” for an hour.... A more satisfactory scheme would be to swoop into the pantry, on her way to the station, and to take them away for herself. She had only to say: “Make haste with them crevets,” for Gripper to go off in a huff, and Leonard, should he be there, would be almost sure to follow. Men were so touchy. Hush. Her mother’s voice came drifting from below. “Kate! Kate! Kate! Kate!” She listened. “Have the chintz curtains in the white room folded,” she could hear her say, “and remember what I said about the carpet....” Dear soul! Miss Sinquier sniffed. Was it a tear. Dear soul! Dear souls...! “Never mind,” she murmured, “they shall have _sofas_ in their box on the night of my début....” She consoled herself with the thought. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ IV “MAKE haste now with them crevets!” “For shame, Miss. I shall go straight to the Dean!” “Cr-r-r-evets!” Miss Sinquier called. Clad in full black, with a dark felt _chapeau de resistance_ and a long Lancastrian shawl, she felt herself no mean match for any man. “C-r-r-r,” she growled, throwing back her shawl. After all, were not the things her own? She laughed gaily. “If dear Mrs. Bromley could see me,” she beamed, tucking dexterously away an apostolic spoon. “‘St. Matthew—St. Mark—St. Luke—St. John— _These_ sprang into bed with their breeches on.’” At a friendly frolic once, a Candidate for Orders had waltzed her about to that. She recalled Fräulein’s erudite query still: “Pray, why did they not take off all like the others?”