Hilda was engaged on this day to lunch and spend the afternoon with Mrs. Farrar, at Farrar Court. Molly and Christian were to drive over for her in the evening. This programme was carried out, but the young people lingered rather longer at Farrar Court listening to the quaint, old-world recollections of its white-haired hostess than was allowed for. Consequently they were late, and heard the first dinner-bell ringing as they drove up the lane that led in a casual way to their home. (This lane was characteristic of the house. It turned off unobtrusively from the high road at right angles with the evident intention of leading nowhere.) A race upstairs ensued and a hurried toilet. Molly and Christian met on the stairs a few minutes later. Christian had won the race, for he was ready, while Molly struggled with a silver necklace that fitted closely round her throat. Of course he had to help her. While waiting patiently for him to master the intricacies of the old silver clasp, Molly said: “Oh, Christian, there is one place you have not seen yet. Quite close at hand too.” “Ye--es,” he replied absently, as he at length fixed the clasp. “There, it is done!” As he held open the drawing-room door, he said: “What is the place I have to see?” Signor Bruno, who was seated at the far end of the room with Mrs. Carew, rose as he heard the door opened, and advanced to meet Molly. “Porton Abbey,” she said over her shoulder as she advanced into the room. “You must see Porton Abbey.” The Italian shook hands with the new-comers and made a clever, laughing reference to Christian's politeness of the previous day. At this moment Hilda entered, and as soon as she had returned Signor Bruno's courteous salutation Molly turned towards her. “Hilda,” she said, “we have never shown Christian Porton Abbey.” “No,” was the reply. “I have been reserving it for some afternoon when we do not feel very energetic. Unfortunately, we cannot get inside the Abbey now, though.” “Why?” asked Christian, without looking towards Hilda. He had discovered that Signor Bruno was attempting to keep up a conversation with his hostess, while he took in that which was passing at the other end of the room. The old man was seated, and his face was within the radius of light cast by a shaded lamp. Christian, who stood, was in the shade. “Because it is a French monastery,” replied Molly. “Here,” she added, “is a flower for your coat, as you say the button-hole is warped by constant pinning in of stalks.” “Thanks,” he replied, stooping a little in order that she could reach the button-hole of his coat. She was in front of him, directly between him and Signor Bruno; but he could see over her head. “What sort of monastery is it?” he continued conversationally. “I did not know that there were any establishments of that sort in England.”