There on the seat beside him, her hands half pleading, her eyes set ready to meet his own, sat Jill. CHAPTER XXX THE QUALITIES OF IGNATIA In amazement, John put out his hand. He touched her to see if she was real. Her hand answered. She caught his finger. Then she let it fall. "Are you sorry?" she whispered. He looked up at the image of St. Anthony, then back at her; around the church, then back once more at her. "Where have you come from?" he asked. "From home--from London." "When?" "I arrived last night." "Alone?" "No! No! With the Crossthwaites." "Then what has happened?" "Why--nothing has happened--and----" her voice dropped below the whisper--that strange pitch in which you hear not a syllable, yet know the worst--"and everything has happened." "You’re going to be married?" It sounded no less terrible in his voice because he knew it. "Yes." "Then why have you come here?" "The Crossthwaites were going. They asked me to come too. It was the only chance I knew I should ever have--our City of Beautiful Nonsense--I had to come." Still John gazed at her, as though she were unreal. One does not always believe one’s own eyes, for there are some things, which the readiness to see will constitute the power of vision. He put out his hand again. "I can hardly believe it," he said slowly. "Here, just a minute ago, I was telling St. Anthony all I had lost. You--the best thing in my life--my ideal as well--even my sense of humour." She looked up at his face wondering. There had been strange lost things for which she had prayed to St. Anthony--things to which only a woman can act as valuer. But to pray for a lost sense of humour. She touched the hand that he put out. "You’re very funny," she said gently--"You’re very quaint. Do you think you’ll find the sense of humour again?" "I’ve found it," said John. "Already?" "Yes--already." One eye lifted to St. Anthony. Then he told her about the hawker and that rare, that valuable coin--the English penny--and in two minutes, they were laughing with their heads in their hands. This is not a reverent thing to do in a church. The least that you can offer, is to hide your face, or, turning quickly to the burial service in the prayer-book--granted that you understand Latin--read that. Failing that of burial, the service of matrimony will do just as well. But before the image of St. Anthony, to whom you have been praying for a lost gift of laughter--well, you may be sure that St. Anthony will excuse it. After all, it is only a compliment to his powers; and the quality of saintliness, being nothing without its relation to humanity, must surely argue some little weakness somewhere. What better then than the pride that is pardonable? At length, when she had answered all his questions, when he had answered all hers, they rose reluctantly to their feet. "I must go back to them," she said regretfully.