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CROME YELLOW

“In the garden that afternoon they found themselves for a moment alone.

“‘You won’t tell anyone, George? Promise you won’t tell anyone,’ she implored. ‘It would make us look so ridiculous. And besides, eating is unspiritual, isn’t it? Say you won’t tell anyone.’

“‘I will,’ said George brutally. ‘I'll tell everyone, unless . . .”

“‘It’s blackmail.’

“‘I don’t care,’ said George. ‘I'll give you twenty-four hours to decide.’

“Lady Lapith was disappointed, of course; she had hoped for better things—for Timpany and a coronet. But George, after all, wasn’t so bad. They were married at the New Year.

“My poor grandfather!” Mr. Wimbush added, as he closed his book and put away his pince-nez. “Whenever I read in the papers about oppressed nationalities, I think of him.” He relighted his cigar. “It was a maternal government, highly centralized, and there were no representative institutions.”

Henry Wimbush ceased speaking. In the silence that ensued Ivor’s whispered commentary on the spirit sketches once

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