“Yes, we owe that much to the Craft,” he assented. “All Ritual is fortifying. Ritual’s a natural necessity for mankind. The more things are upset, the more they fly to it. I abhor slovenly Ritual anywhere. By the way, would you mind assisting at the examinations, if there are many Visiting Brothers to-night? You’ll find some of ’em very rusty but--it’s the Spirit, not the Letter, that giveth life. The question of Visiting Brethren is an important one. There are so many of them in London now, you see; and so few places where they can meet.” “You dear thing!” said Mrs. Burges, and handed him his locked and initialed apron-case. “Our Lodge is only just round the corner,” he went on. “You mustn’t be too critical of our appurtenances. The place was a garage once.” As far as I could make out in the humiliating darkness, we wandered up a mews and into a courtyard. Mr. Burges piloted me, murmuring apologies for everything in advance. “You mustn’t expect----” he was still saying when we stumbled up a porch and entered a carefully decorated ante-room hung round with Masonic prints. I noticed Peter Gilkes and Barton Wilson, fathers of “Emulation” working, in the place of honour; Kneller’s Christopher Wren; Dunkerley, with his own Fitz-George book-plate below and the bend sinister on the Royal Arms; Hogarth’s caricature of Wilkes, also his disreputable “Night”; and a beautifully framed set of Grand Masters, from Anthony Sayer down. “Are these another hobby of yours?” I asked. “Not this time,” Mr. Burges smiled. “We have to thank Brother Lemming for them.” He introduced me to the senior partner of Lemming and Orton, whose little shop is hard to find, but whose words and cheques in the matter of prints are widely circulated. “The frames are the best part of ’em,” said Brother Lemming after my compliments. “There are some more in the Lodge Room. Come and look. We’ve got the big Desaguliers there that nearly went to Iowa.” I had never seen a Lodge Room better fitted. From mosaicked floor to appropriate ceiling, from curtain to pillar, implements to seats, seats to lights, and little carved music-loft at one end, every detail was perfect in particular kind and general design. I said what I thought of them all, many times over. “I told you I was a Ritualist,” said Mr. Burges. “Look at those carved corn-sheaves and grapes on the back of these Wardens’ chairs. That’s the old tradition--before Masonic furnishers spoilt it. I picked up that pair in Stepney ten years ago--the same time I got the gavel.” It was of ancient, yellowed ivory, cut all in one piece out of some tremendous tusk. “That came from the Gold Coast,” he said. “It belonged to a Military Lodge there in 1794. You can see the inscription.” “If it’s a fair question,” I began, “how much----”