"Uncle," she said, "shall I not go to see my dear and saintly brother's body put into the earth from which he will rise again when the trumpet of the Resurrection Day sounds?" This was rather above Sir Augustus. "Tut, tut, my dear," he said; "the--er--Resurrection trumpet is not very near to the nineteenth century. But still, if you must go, I shall insist on your having a proper escort." Accordingly Mary had been sent to Wales in the charge of the Kirwans' family solicitor, who was instructed to see that everything was done decently and in order, as befitted the obsequies of the last male member of the House of Lys. For her part, Mary did not in the least want the company of Mr. Owen, the solicitor. She would have infinitely preferred to be left alone with her grief. Nevertheless she recognized the kindly feeling and family instinct that prompted Sir Augustus' action, and submitted with the best grace possible. Lluellyn Lys had been dead for seven days, and it was now two days after the funeral. Sir Augustus was not yet able to leave the house, but his gout was better. After the simple dinner--which was all that the doctor allowed him--he sat in his library reading the newspaper of that morning. The first thing that caught his eye was a review of a new play which had just been produced under the title of "The Golden Maiden." Sir Augustus was an occasional patron of the burlesque stage. The sort of entertainments provided by the theatres that produce "musical comedy" were quite to his taste. Kindly and generous as he was, he was a man without any religious belief whatever and with no ideals. To such a mind, the indelicacy and lubricity of these plays appealed intensely, and afforded him great amusement. Nor had he the slightest idea that any blame whatever could attach to him. These places were crowded night after night by all sections of society--who was he to stay away? Sir Augustus chuckled over the criticism. The writer first gave a detailed synopsis of the plot--such as it was--and recorded his general impressions of the performance. The critic was obviously a man of taste and decent feeling, for he spoke in no measured terms of the gross indecency of the play, which was, to put it plainly, little more nor less than a glorification of adultery. "And the pity of it is," the writer concluded, "that all London will flock to see this immoral nonsense. If the drama is to be thus degraded--and no other form of entertainment has an equal popularity with the one under discussion--then decent English men and women will begin to long for the return of the Commonwealth, with its stern and self-sacrificing simplicity." Sir Augustus put the paper down. "Silly fool," he muttered. "I wonder he is allowed to write such hypocritical twaddle. Certainly, from what he says, they do seem to have gone a little too far this time."