"So they took you to a lot of old churches and cathedrals," he began suddenly to Shirley, after an interval during which they had listened politely to Miss Antoinette Southwode’s truly "searching" soprano and Mr. Burnham-Brisbane’s astonishingly "wabbly" tenor, intermingled in an elaborate Italian duet. "Did n’t you find that sort of thing deadly dull?" "Not a bit," denied Shirley, promptly. "It was such fun to hear the dear old vergers proudly recite the histories of the antiquities. And the antiquities themselves! In one very, very old church there was a tablet of a man and his six wives, all kneeling before a shrine. He knelt first and they came after, all in profile. The poor dears were all dressed alike--they must have worn the same dress, handed down. One’s head was gone--that made her more touching than the others. You could n’t help feeling that her husband had been harder on her than on the rest. He looked that sort, you see." "No doubt he was," agreed Hille, laughing. "Did you see anything else equal to that?" "No end of things. Of course there was ever so much that was dignified and beautiful, but one could n’t help being glad to find something funny now and then. One tablet in another ancient chapel showed three men, one above another on their painted wooden tombs, all lying sidewise and half rising on their elbows, and staring right down at you with their eyes wide open. They had pink cheeks and black hair. They were father, son, and grandson, and the father looked the youngest. Their wives were all lying quietly asleep at one side. It did n’t seem fair for the men to be so wide awake, while the poor wives had to slumber and see nothing.--Oh, there goes Mr. Brisbane again! Why _does_ his voice shake so much harder than when I heard him last?" "He ’s that much more celebrated," said Hille. "See here, are n’t you and Marian about the same age." Shirley shook her head. But when the song was over he asked the question again. "I ’m three months older," admitted Shirley. "She looks three years older. Why is it?" Shirley shook her head again. It was one thing to air her views to her family, quite another to tell Brant that Marian was leaping into young ladyhood and its signs too fast. But Brant studied his sister. Her blond head, the hair elaborately waved, could be seen between the heads and shoulders in front, the striking rose-crowned hat conspicuous among other elaborate hats of all patterns. "She looks twenty-five, at least," he commented, approvingly. "She looks older than your sister Olive. And she seems to have that cad Maltbie glued to her for the afternoon. If that ’s the best she can do, she ’d better take me. But she ’s no use for brothers. Look here, when ’s Forrest coming home?"