Long years afterwards, Wantley, happening to be present at one of those futile conversations in which are discussed the first meetings of those destined to know each other well, in answer to the somewhat impertinent question, uttered, however, by a youthful and therefore privileged voice, 'And do you, Lord Wantley, remember your first meeting with her?' answered in all good faith: 'I first saw her in our Roman Catholic chapel at Beacon Abbas, nursing a little beggar child. She wore a bright blue frock, and what I took to be a halo; as a matter of fact it was a sailor-hat!' And then, from more than one of those that were present, came the words, 'How nice! and how exactly what one would have expected from what one knows of her now!' And Wantley, happy Wantley, saw no cause to say them nay. Yet the half-hour which followed might well have effaced the memory of a more tangible vision, and have impressed a man less whimsical and easy-going as almost intolerably prosaic. After the congregation had dispersed, he had had to wait at a short distance, but not, as he congratulated himself, out of earshot, while Cecily Wake and the Irish mother of the ailing child held what seemed to be an interminable conversation. The listener then became acquainted, for the first time, with certain not uninteresting data as to how the citizens of our great Empire are prepared for their struggle through existence. He learnt that the child's first meal that Sunday, administered by the advice of 'a very knowing woman,' had consisted of a half-glass of the best bitters and of a biscuit; he overheard Cecily's realistic if gently worded description of what effect this diet was likely to have on an unfortunate baby's interior, and he admired the way in which the speaker mingled practical advice with praise of the poor little creature's prettiness. Finally, from the shabby waist bag Wantley had looked at with so much disfavour a couple of hours before, Cecily took a leaflet, which she handed to the woman, the gift being softened by the addition of a two-shilling piece. He heard her say, 'This is milk money; you will not spend it on anything else, will you?' And there had followed a few mysterious sentences, uttered in lower tones, of which Wantley had caught the words, 'afternoon,' 'Benediction,' 'fits,' and 'doctor.' At last the woman had shuffled away with her now quiescent burden, and as they passed through the monastery gates Wantley saw with concern that his companion looked pale and tired. 'If you propose coming back here this afternoon, and seeing that woman again,' he said with kindly authority, 'I will drive you over. Perhaps by that time your aunt will be well enough to come too.' 'Oh, I hope not!' Cecily's expression of dismay was involuntary. 'Aunt Theresa only likes my helping poor people whom I know about already,' she explained.