The door opens, and St. John enters. "Tell us a wise man's name?" "Who was a wise man?" cry they both in a breath. "Solomon!" replies St. John, brilliantly. "So I said," says Esther, smiling; "but, unluckily, it must be a _two_-syllabled wise man. I'm afraid that it would be disrespectful to abbreviate him into _Solmon_, wouldn't it?" "One ought to be provided with a Bible, a Lemprière, and an encyclopædia before one attempts to grapple with these devices of Satan," says Gerard, sitting down on the arm of the sofa beside Constance and looking over her shoulder. "A woman! Who is the woman?" "We have not found out yet." "A king! Who is the king?" "We have not found out yet." "You seem to be on the highroad to success," says he, laughing, and throwing himself back lazily. "We have only just begun," says Miss Blessington, a little reproachfully. "You and Miss Craven are always so impatient." "There are a great many two-syllabled kings' names," says Esther, with a prodigious effort to look intelligent and interested: "Edward, Henry, Louis, Ahab, Alfred, Joash!" "I daresay it is one of those Jewish kings," says Constance, reflectively; "they are always fond of introducing Bible names into acrostics. Is there a Bible anywhere about, St. John?" St. John walks slowly round the well-laden tables; looks over photograph books, Doré's "Elaine," Flaxman's "Dante;" but in vain. He comes back, and shakes his head. "I will go and fetch one," says Constance, rising with noiseless grace, and rustling softly away among the console tables. "May she long be occupied in searching the Scriptures for a dissyllabic king!" cries Gerard, drawing a long breath, and yawning as the door closes behind her. "I am glad she is gone," says Esther, looking rather embarrassed, "as I have something to say to you." "Say on." "I must go home to-morrow," she continues, drawing hideous faces and wooden-legged cows on her bit of paper. "Are you beginning to try experiments on me already?" he asks, incredulously, leaning his folded arms on the little table which forms a barrier between them. "No; but I have received a letter from Jack this morning, which----" "Which you are going to read to me?" "Oh, no--no!" she answers, hastily, putting her hand in involuntary protection over her pocket; "it--it--wouldn't interest you." (It would have interested him rather too much.) "He seems to be missing me a good deal." "Be honest," says St. John, stretching out his hand and taking hers captive, pencil and all. "Does he miss you as much as I shall?" "More, a good deal, I should say," she replies, looking up with an arch smile; "I don't make your tea, and order your dinner, and darn your socks. One, two, three, four weeks," continues she, marking each number with her slender fingers on the table. "I have actually been here nearly a month, and" (with a half-absent sigh), "do you know, the very day I left home I told them----" "Who's them?"