But London is getting worse and worse.” “Why don’t you have the gas lighted?” the Rector asked in a querulous tone. “I have brought something to show you, but there is no light to see it by.” “You shall have the light in a moment,” cried Mrs Marston; “that is the one good thing of gas. It spoils your picture-frames and kills your flowers; but you can have it instantly, and always clean and no trouble. There!” The gas leaping up dazzled them for a moment, and then Mr Marston opened his book and pointed his finger to the entry. “Look here, Mary--look at that; did you ever see a name like that before? What do you suppose it can mean?” Mrs Marston had to put on her spectacles first, and they had always to be looked for before they could be put on. She had just adopted spectacles, and did not like them, nor to have to make, even to herself, the confession that she wanted them: and they were always out of the way. The Rector was short-sighted, and had the exemption which such persons enjoy. He looked upon the magnifying spectacles of his wife with contempt, and it was always irritating to him to see her hunting about, saying, “Where have I put my glasses?” as was her wont. “Can’t you tie them round your neck,” he said, “or keep them in your pocket--or something?” When, however, they were found at last, he spread the book out upon the table and, with his finger on the place, waited while she read. Their two heads stooping over the book under the gas, with the pale sky looking in at the window, made a curious picture, he eager, she still fumbling a little to get on her spectacles without further comment. “‘Reginald Winton,’” she read hesitating, “‘bachelor, of this parish.’ I never certainly heard of any one of that name in this parish: stay, it might be the new care-taker perhaps at Mullins and Makings--or----” “That’s not the name,” cried the Rector. He would have liked to pinch her, but refrained. “This is no care-taker, you may be sure; but it is the other name--look at the other name. Where have you seen it before? and what is the meaning of it?” Mr Marston cried with excitement. He had worked himself up to this pitch, and he forgot that she was quite unprepared. She read, stumbling a little, for the handwriting was crabbed, “‘Jane Angela Pendragon Plantagenet Fitz-Merlin Altamont, spinster, of the parish of Billings.’ Dear, dear,” was good Mrs Marston’s first comment--“I hope she has names enough and syllables enough for one person.” “And is that all that strikes you?” her husband said. “Well--it is an odd name--is that what you mean, William? Very silly, I think, to give a girl all that to sign. I suppose if she uses it all, it will be only in initials. She will sign, you know, Jane Angela, or very likely only Angela, which is much prettier than Jane; Angela P. P. F.--or F. M.--Altamont, that is how it will be. Angela Altamont; it is like a name in a novel.”