Hester nodded. “That is more or less comprehensible,” she said. “A torpedo is an essentially modern thing stored with potential activities and likely to go off and startle everybody when they least expect it, all of which is characteristically American. The marble knight—and I fancy some people would include the angel—belongs to the past, to the old knightly days when women were worshipped, men believed in saints and guardian angels, and faith wrought miracles.” The vicar glanced at Nettie as he said, “Extremes meet now and then.” “Well,” said Nettie, “women are made much of in my country still, even by impecunious Englishmen who claim descent from men who did their share in those days of chivalry. That is, when they have money enough, but just now I’m not going to be too prickly. You haven’t much voice, Hester, but you sing that little jingly song about the fairies quite prettily, and the notion it’s hung upon gets hold of me. I can feel it better in Northrop church than anywhere. You know what I mean. There is very little to keep us out of fairyland. You have but to touch with your finger tips the ivory gate and golden!” “If Hester understands your meaning I admit that it’s more than I do,” said Tony. “Still,” said Nettie naively, “I didn’t think you would. You have too many possessions, and, you see, there are limitations in the song. You might knock a long while at those ivory gates before they let you in.” There was a little laughter, in which Tony joined, and the vicar said, “Excellent! He deserved it. Please don’t stop. Miss Harding.” “That’s not necessary,” said Hester. “Once Nettie gets started she generally, as she would express it, goes straight through.” “Yes,” said Nettie, “I quite often do. I’m not in the least afraid, like you, of being thought sentimental. In fact, we are fond of telling people what we think in my country. Still, I’m not sure about those limitations. The gates should open to everybody, even business men and heiresses—but I don’t want to go trespassing while the vicar’s here.” The vicar nodded. “I claim you as an ally,” he said, “The idea you have taken up is not, however, exactly a novel one.” “Well,” said Nettie, “what I feel is this. The old loyal spirit is living still—because it belongs to all time and can never die. It’s with us now in these days of steam engines and magazine rifles. Those old‐ time men wore their labels—the monk’s girdle, the red‐cross shield, the palmer’s shell, and some, according to the pictures, the nimbus too; but can’t modern men, even those who play poker, which is a game of nerve as well as chance, and smoke green cigars, be as good as they? Now, I don’t like a man to be ostensibly puritanical and ascetic—unless, of course, he’s a clergyman.” There was a little laughter, and the vicar shook his head. “I’m afraid they don’t all come under that category,” he said.