"We mustn't dawdle on the road, Fitzroy. Bristol is still a long way off, and we have so much to see--Glastonbury, Wells, Cheddar." Though Cynthia was vexed by the interruption she did not show it. Indeed, she was aware of her companion's strange reiteration of the towns to be visited, since Mrs. Devar had already admitted a special weakness in geography, and during the trip from Brighton to Bournemouth was quite unable to name a town, a county, or a landmark. But the queer thought of a moment was dispelled by sight of the ruins of St. Dunstan's monastery appearing above a low wall. In front of the broken arches and tottering walls grew some apple trees so old and worn that no blossom decked their gnarled branches. Unbidden tears glistened in the girl's eyes. "If I lived here I would plant a new orchard," she said tremulously. "I think Guinevere would like it, and you say she is buried with her king in St. Joseph's Chapel." Medenham had suddenly grown stern again. He glanced at her, and then made great business with brakes and levers, for Mrs. Devar was still inquisitive. "There is a fine old Pilgrims' Inn, the George, in the main street," he said jerkily. "I propose to stop there; the entrance to the Abbey is exactly opposite. In the George they will show you a room in which Henry the Eighth slept, and I would recommend you to get a guide for half an hour at least." "Must we walk?" demanded Mrs. Devar plaintively. "Yes, if you wish to see anything. But one could throw a stone over the chief show places, they are so close together." So Cynthia was shown the Alfred Jewel, and Celtic dice-boxes carefully loaded for the despoiling of Roman legionaries or an unwary Phoenician, and heard the story of the Holy Grail from the lips of an ancient who lent credence to the legend by his venerable appearance. Mixed up with the imposing ruins and the glory of St. Joseph's Chapel was a visit to the butcher's at the corner of the street, where the veteran proudly exhibited a duck with four feet. He then called Cynthia's attention to the carved panels of the George Hotel, and pointed out a fine window, bayed on each successive story. She had almost forgotten the wretched duck when he mentioned a two-headed calf which was on view at a neighboring dairy. Mrs. Devar showed signs of interest, so Cynthia tipped the old man hurriedly, and ran to the car. "I shall come here--some other time," she gasped, and it thrilled her to believe that Fitzroy understood, though he had heard no word of quadruped fowl or bicipital monster. At Wells Medenham pitied her. He bribed a policeman to guard the Mercury, and when Mrs. Devar saw that more walking was expected of her she elected to sit in the tonneau and admire the west front of the cathedral. "Lady Porthcawl tells me it is a masterpiece," she chirped shrilly, "so I want to take it in at my leisure."