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himself before her and smiled down upon her as she murmured, disconcerted: ‘Turned it out! Why, it was their treasure! They carried it away in a hamper.’

‘What do these cakes remind you of, Mummy?’ Clive went on, keeping himself between Celia and Mrs. Jessup. ‘Do you remember that hot day at Chartres when we stopped at the pastrycook’s and bought wonderful cakes for tea—cakes like these—on our way back to the hotel?—Do you remember the ill-tempered gardien—and the black kitten we found wandering in the cathedral?’

‘What a tribute to my cakes!—Of course I remember.’

‘When did you eat the cakes of Chartres, Hester?’ Mr. Gales inquired, reclining now above Oriana on the back of the sofa as he fanned her with a newspaper.

‘I didn’t eat them. It was Clive; long ago.—Some more tea, please, Monica.’

‘You and Clive must go some day,’ said Monica, filling the cup. ‘It’s the most beautiful cathedral in the world.’

‘We must all four go,’ said Clive. ‘You and I and Mummy and Celia, Hester.—To think of your never having seen Chartres!’