He was already dreaming he was a widower, rather infirm, the object of Magnet's and Marjorie's devoted care, when the song ceased, and the wife he had for the purpose of reveries just consigned so carelessly to the cemetery proposed that they should have a little game that every one could play at. A number of pencils and slips of paper appeared in her hands. She did not want the girls to exhaust their repertory on this first occasion--and besides, Mr. Pope liked games in which one did things with pencils and strips of paper. Mr. Magnet wished the singing to go on, he said, but he was overruled. So for a time every one played a little game in which Mr. Pope was particularly proficient. Indeed, it was rare that any one won but Mr. Pope. It was called "The Great Departed," and it had such considerable educational value that all the children had to play at it whenever he wished. It was played in this manner; one of the pseudo twins opened a book and dabbed a finger on the page, and read out the letter immediately at the tip of her finger, then all of them began to write as hard as they could, writing down the names of every great person they could think of, whose name began with that letter. At the end of five minutes Mr. Pope said Stop! and then began to read his list out, beginning with the first name. Everybody who had that name crossed it out and scored one, and after his list was exhausted all the surviving names on the next list were read over in the same way, and so on. The names had to be the names of dead celebrated people, only one monarch of the same name of the same dynasty was allowed, and Mr. Pope adjudicated on all doubtful cases. It was great fun. The first two games were won as usual by Mr. Pope, and then Mr. Wintersloan, who had been a little distraught in his manner, brightened up and scribbled furiously. The letter was _D_, and after Mr. Pope had rehearsed a tale of nine and twenty names, Mr. Wintersloan read out his list in that curious voice of his which suggested nothing so much as some mobile drink glucking out of the neck of a bottle held upside down. "Dahl," he began. "Who was Dahl?" asked Mr. Pope. "'Vented dahlias," said Mr. Wintersloan, with a sigh. "Danton." "Forgot him," said Mr. Pope. "Davis." "Davis?" "Davis Straits. Doe." "Who?" "John Doe, Richard Roe." "Legal fiction, I'm afraid," said Mr. Pope. "Dam," said Mr. Wintersloan, and added after a slight pause: "Anthony van." Mr. Pope made an interrogative noise. "Painter--eighteenth century--Dutch. Dam, Jan van, his son. Dam, Frederich van. Dam, Wilhelm van. Dam, Diedrich van. Dam, Wilhelmina, wood engraver, gifted woman. Diehl." "Who?" "Painter--dead--famous. See Düsseldorf. It's all painters now--all guaranteed dead, all good men. Deeds of Norfolk, the aquarellist, Denton, Dibbs." "Er?" said Mr. Pope. "The Warwick Claude, _you_ know. Died 1823." "Dickson, Dunting, John Dickery. Peter Dickery, William Dock--I beg your pardon?"