Thus it happened four days afterwards that I made a morning visit to the camp ready to add to the solemnity of the occasion such dignity as a frock-coat and top-hat could lend. Knowing the ancient and universal Gypsy fondness for baptism I had hoped that there would have been a tribal festival. It was therefore disappointing to find that the appearance of the hall was normal, and that Worsho himself was still in bed, although the time appointed for the ceremony was near at hand. After some exhortation he got up, stretched himself, breakfasted leisurely, and dressed in his ordinary clothes: but Saveta, daughter of Michael, who was to be godmother, kept me in countenance by putting on a white dress gaudy with floral patterns. At last the little procession set out for St. Werburgh’s Church—the strikingly handsome Worsho, his young widowed sister Luba, the two godparents, Saveta’s pretty little niece Liza, an assistant librarian from the Bodleian, and the indispensable baby. We were shockingly late, and on our arrival found that the christening ceremony had already begun for the benefit of another infant. But the good priest left the font, came politely to the door to receive us, put us in our places, and recommenced the service. Although unprepared for the solemnity and thoroughness of my godchild’s reception into the Church, I played my unrehearsed part to the best of my ability, stumbling only once when, some ancient memory of a grammar school in the Midlands awaking suddenly at the command, “Say the Paternoster,” I said it bravely—in Latin! And indeed this fault causes my conscience less trouble than the problem of how to fulfil my godparental obligations when my wandering goddaughter may be anywhere at all in either hemisphere.