"I have an idea," he said, with a humorous twinkle. "The Archbishop, who is a very good friend of mine, is forming a collection of antiquities. Now—" he searched in all his pockets—"I found a rare Elizabethan tobacco-pipe here the other day." He produced it and polished it carefully on his sleeve. Marjolaine, I am sorry to say, hid her face in her handkerchief, and was attacked by a fit of coughing which shook her from head to foot. "Perhaps," continued the Doctor, eyeing the pipe with fond regret, "perhaps if I were to offer that to his Grace, it might oil the wheels." He sighed deeply. "Yes!—It will be a wrench, but I ’ll take it to Lambeth to-morrow—Ah, no! To-morrow is Sunday!" "Dash it!" cried Jack, petulantly. "What a way Sunday has of coming in the wrong part of the week!" "Hush!" said Doctor Sternroyd, reprovingly, "Monday, then." "And you’ll marry us the same day?" asked Jack. "No, no!" replied the Doctor. "The day after, perhaps." Marjolaine ticked the days off on her fingers. "Saturday—Sunday—Monday—Tuesday—! Four whole days!—" The lovers looked at each other disconsolately, and together sighed, "Oh, dear!" "And what am I to do till then?" cried Jack. "I daren’t go home. My father ’s quite capable of having me kidnapped and sent to my ship!" Marjolaine clung to him with a little cry. "Oh, Jack!" He turned to Doctor Sternroyd with sudden decision. "Doctor! You must give me a bed." The Doctor failed to understand. "Give you—?" "A bed." Doctor Sternroyd threw up his hands in protest. "And incur your noble father’s displeasure?" "On the contrary. He’d be deeply grateful to you for showing me hospitality." "Ah," sighed the Antiquary, shaking his head, "you’ll find me poor company, young gentleman." "It’s only for two days," said Jack lightly. "We can play chess." He turned to Marjolaine. "And every evening we’ll meet in the Gazebo. I ’ll whistle so:—" he executed a fragment which Marjolaine repeated, more or less—"and you ’ll come out." Doctor Sternroyd was troubled; but this young man had a way with him. "Ah, well!" he sighed, sitting down and motioning them to sit beside him. "Now you must give me full particulars: your names, ages, professions, if any—" "How exciting!" cried Marjolaine, clapping her hands. The Antiquary picked up one of the books. "’_Epicteti quæ supersunt Dissertationes_,’" he read, affectionately. "A pencil! Now, Mr. Sayle—" So they bent their heads together, and were very busy, giving the dates of birthdays, and all their histories, which Doctor Sternroyd meticulously entered on the fly-leaf of the tome.