"Well, then, the café was opened, and a little choir of birds from the chapel began to sing, and all the people round about who had no intention to be temperate, but loved a ceremony, came to see the opening. They trouped into the little hall and stood with gaping mouths looking at that false image which bore the superscription of St. Daeclan, and the old women held up their hands and they said: "Oh, shure, glory be to God! ’tis just loike the pore man--it is indeed. Faith, I never want to see a better loikeness of himself than that." John turned and looked at her. "And there he stands to this day," he added--"as fine an example of good faith and bad painting as I have ever seen in my life." "What a delightful little story," she said, and she looked at him with that expression in the eyes when admiration mingles so charmingly with bewilderment that one is compelled to take them both as a compliment. "Do you know you surprise me," she added. "So I see," said he. "You see?" "In your eyes." "You saw that?" "Yes, you were wondering how I came to be praying--probably for money--to St. Joseph--praying in an old blue serge suit that looked as if a little money could easily be spent on it, and yet can afford to sit out here in the morning in Kensington Gardens and tell you what you are so good as to call a delightful little story?" "That’s quite true. I was wondering that." "And I," said John, "have been wondering just the same about you." What might not such a conversation as this have led to? They were just beginning to tread upon that virgin soil from which any fruit may be born. It is a wonderful moment that, the moment when two personalities just touch. You can feel the contact tingling to the tips of your fingers. What might they not have talked of then? She might even have told him why she was praying to St. Joseph, but then the master mariner returned, bearing papers in his hand. "Are you one Thomas Grey?" said he. "I am that man," replied John. "These are secret papers which I am to deliver into your hands. There is a fortune to be made if you keep secret." John took the short story. "Secrecy shall be observed," said he. CHAPTER VIII THE FATEFUL TICKET-PUNCHER The master of the good ship _Albatross_ departed, chartered for another voyage to the Port of Lagos with his cargo of gravel, gathered with the sweat of the brow and the tearing of the finger nails from the paths in Kensington Gardens. John hid the short story away and lit a cigarette. She watched him take it loose from his waistcoat pocket. Had he no cigarette case? She watched him take a match--loose also--from the ticket pocket of his coat. Had he no match-box? She watched him strike it upon the sole of his boot, believing all the time that he was unaware of the direction of her eyes.