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Rivington passed down the nave till he reached the central space under the great dome. There he paused, and gazed straight upwards into the giddy height above him.

As he stood thus calmly contemplative, a light step sounded on the pavement close to him, and a low voice spoke.

“Oh, here you are! It’s good of you to be so punctual.”

He lowered his eyes slowly as if he were afraid of giving them a shock, and focussed them upon the speaker.

“I am never late,” he remarked. “And I am never early.”

Then he smiled kindly and held out his hand.

“Hullo, Chirpy!” he said. “It is Chirpy, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is Chirpy. But I never expected you to remember that.”

“I remember most things,” said Rivington.

His pale eyes dwelt contemplatively on the girl before him. She was very slim and young, and plainly very nervous. There was no beauty about Ernestine Cardwell, only a certain wild grace peculiarly charming, and a quick wit that some people found too shrewd. When she laughed she was a child. Her laugh was irresistible, and there was magic in her smile, a baffling, elusive magic too transient to be defined. Very sudden and very fleeting was her smile. Rivington saw it for an instant only as she met his look.

“Do you know,” she said, colouring deeply. “I thought you were much older than you are.”

“I am fifty,” said Rivington.

But she shook her head.

“It is very good of you to say so.”

“Not at all,” smiled Rivington. “You, I fancy, must be about twenty-one. How long since the bull episode?”

“Oh, do you remember that, too?” She uttered a faint laugh.

“Vividly,” said Rivington. “I have a lively memory of the fleetness of your retreat and the violence of your embrace when the danger was over.”

She laughed again.

“It was years and years ago–quite six, I should think.”

“Quite, I should say,” agreed Rivington. “But we have met since then, surely?”

“Oh yes, casually. But we are not in the same set, are we? Some one once told me you were very Bohemian.”

“Who was it? I should like to shoot him!” said Rivington.

At which she laughed again, and then threw a guilty glance around.

“I don’t think this is a very good place for a talk.”

“Not if you want to do much laughing,” said Rivington. “Come along to the tea-shop round the corner. No one will disturb us there.”

They turned side by side, and began to walk back. The girl moved quickly as though not wholly at her ease. She glanced at her companion once or twice, but it was not till they finally emerged at the head of the steps that she spoke.

“I am wondering more and more how I ever had the impertinence to do it.”

“There’s no great risk in asking a poor relation to do anything,” said Rivington consolingly.

“Ah, but I did it without asking.” There was an unmistakable note of distress in her quick rejoinder. “I was at my wits’ end. I didn’t know what on earth to do. And it came to me suddenly like an inspiration. But I wish I hadn’t now, with all my heart.”

Rivington turned his mild eyes upon her.

“My dear child, don’t be silly!” he said. “I am delighted to be of use for a change. I don’t do much worth the doing, being more or less of a loafer. It is good for me to exercise my ingenuity now and then. It only gets rusty lying by.”

She put out her hand impulsively and squeezed his.

“You’re awfully nice to me,” she said. “It’s only a temporary expedient, of course. I couldn’t ask you first–there wasn’t time. But I’ll set you free as soon as I possibly can. Have people been talking much?”

“Rather! They are enjoying it immensely. I have had to go ahead like steam. I’ve even engaged a best man.”

She threw him a startled look.

“Oh, but—-“

“No, don’t be alarmed,” he said reassuringly. “It’s best to take the bull by the horns, believe me. The more fuss you make at the outset, the quicker it will be over. People will be taking us for granted in a week.”