golden sister with the long hair would make the more wholesome Duchess. "Dear heart," he said, “I have loved you long in secret." Which was a bit stretched, considering that early hug. So everything worked out satisfactorily on the final page when they kissed at last beneath the moon to be happy ever afterwards.

The yellow blot upon the page was, beyond a doubt, the old Queen's tear; and at this (Bill's hint) she rolled over toward Prince Albert. I dropped the book upon the floor, blew out the candle and fell asleep.

So much for a sentimental reader.

JULIA FLOAY

He... flavors his thumb with sulphur

I

CHAPTER XXIV

WE JOURNEY TO GOODWOOD FOR THE RACES

WAS awakened by a horrid smell. It was broad daylight. I sat up and turned toward Beezer.

He lay upon his elbow, toasting a water-biscuit at the candle. It was a soiled and blackened crisp and was emitting a foul odor of burning dough, tallow and raw thumb. Beezer has a weakness for singeing food and he welcomes these primitive lodgings without electric lights so that he can cook himself smoky little messes at a candle as he lies abed. Marshmallows are his usual couchant déjeuner sans fourchet, and he carries with him always a paper sack of pink ones. If there is no candle he lights a succession of matches and flavors his thumb with sulphur. Martyrdom would be no trial to him, if he might be roasted with a sticky lollipop in hand.

I took a bath. I mention this not for personal reasons-for me a hundred baths unsung!- but merely that I may record the strange contrivance that stood against the tub for heating water. It is plumbing that always engages a stranger in a foreign land; and Americans are a bit snooty, for we have rolled all arts together to perfect the bath tub. And now that I have mentioned this device I cannot describe it. It looked as I imagine the first marine engine looked as it chugged up the Hudson. One applied a match to a burner, and after it had flickered sullenly for a half hour and the water had dribbled through a coil of pipes, a tepid stream flowed into the tub in an apologetic manner with the offer of its service to do its best with the assistance of a thin sliver of brown soap. I am not the creature of a movie, as at Hastings for a penny, so we shall leave my performance here upon the threshold.

As we were at breakfast the party from London strolled in one by one in easy negligence the men in flannel or knee breeches, the women in sport skirts and gay silk jersey. And each, as he waited for his eternal sole and bacon, fell to the perusal of a newspaper which he braced against a teapot or sugar bowl. There was some discussion of conflicting baths-of George who shivered in a bathrobe, as he waited for his turn, of Archie who splashed himself from the hand basin, having tried three times the knob. And then the talk fell to last night's bridge and a point of finesse, of tips upon a favorite horse; until one by one, with bacon stored away, they rose and sauntered out.

"Well," said Bill, "how about it? Shall we go to Goodwood?"

"I have seen" I answered, "many horses in my time, and few of them would give me delight to see again." My mind wandered to bitter recollection.

"Once I rode a horse-an ugly brute, tall and sullen, with cruel fangs in front. I was as a child, all steeped in ignorance. I climbed aboard. I say, I climbed aboard. It was my mistake that to adjust myself I seized the creature's ear."

"And did he run?" asked Beezer.

"I do not know," I answered, "I fell off before he started."

"But the crowds!" said Bill. "The excitement!" "The crowd was small, and devoid of sympathy." "I spoke of Goodwood," Bill replied.

"Pardon me," I answered. "My thought was lost in other things. And shall we walk?"

"God forbid. We can get seats in a char-à-banc." "And how about our oath always to go afoot?" "It has been already broken."

"By stress of weather only."

And so it was agreed that by bus we would go to Goodwood.

By this time there was confusion in the street. All the village was on the curb, with shops neglected. Motors streamed through-private cars with gentle blue-nosed folk piled high with rugs; char-à-bancs and vans of beer, each with a honk of warning as it turned from the high street into a narrow lane that led toward Goodwood. There were a few horse-drawn vehicles

carts with lunches swung between the wheels, brakes with footmen standing in the rumble with long horns. Now and then a bicycle scuttled for safety to the curb. A motor dray pounded by, housing the gear of a scenic railway which was to be set up for a thriftless penny. The flimsy cars were stored on end and the dirty canvas peaks of St. Gothard were folded across the top as guard against the threatened rain. This dray was so large that it had to back twice before it could make the narrow turn, and the delay piled up behind it a congestion of impatient horns. And already, as thirst rises early on a holiday, the tavern across the street drove a prosperous business in beer.

Our acquaintances of breakfast were going over in a brake, and it stood in front champing with excitement for its tardy load; as if each horse churned himself to lather in ambition that has denied that he run for the Steward's Cup. Was not the blacksmith's three-year old to entera neighbor up the street? Each horse nodded fiercely and shook with impatience at the inhibition of his harness.

Porters ran about with luncheon hampers and ropes to tie them. And wherever they tied them first, presently they took them off and tied them some place else. A tapster came at a trot, nursing a case of beer against his chin. Umbrella and shawls were handed up. A rubber coat, that had been forgotten, was fetched and tossed in. Galoshes were missing-Archie's, perhaps,and someone ran to find them. There was a jest lest husbands and wives should sit together, and Sallie and George-being under suspicion-were told they might perch upon the rumble with conscience as their guide.