Part 36 (1/2)

”Then why have you come here?”

”The Crossthwaites were going. They asked me to come too. It was the only chance I knew I should ever have--our City of Beautiful Nonsense--I had to come.”

Still John gazed at her, as though she were unreal. One does not always believe one's own eyes, for there are some things, which the readiness to see will const.i.tute the power of vision. He put out his hand again.

”I can hardly believe it,” he said slowly. ”Here, just a minute ago, I was telling St. Anthony all I had lost. You--the best thing in my life--my ideal as well--even my sense of humour.”

She looked up at his face wondering. There had been strange lost things for which she had prayed to St. Anthony--things to which only a woman can act as valuer. But to pray for a lost sense of humour. She touched the hand that he put out.

”You're very funny,” she said gently--”You're very quaint. Do you think you'll find the sense of humour again?”

”I've found it,” said John.

”Already?”

”Yes--already.” One eye lifted to St. Anthony.

Then he told her about the hawker and that rare, that valuable coin--the English penny--and in two minutes, they were laughing with their heads in their hands.

This is not a reverent thing to do in a church. The least that you can offer, is to hide your face, or, turning quickly to the burial service in the prayer-book--granted that you understand Latin--read that.

Failing that of burial, the service of matrimony will do just as well.

But before the image of St. Anthony, to whom you have been praying for a lost gift of laughter--well, you may be sure that St. Anthony will excuse it. After all, it is only a compliment to his powers; and the quality of saintliness, being nothing without its relation to humanity, must surely argue some little weakness somewhere. What better then than the pride that is pardonable?

At length, when she had answered all his questions, when he had answered all hers, they rose reluctantly to their feet.

”I must go back to them,” she said regretfully.

”But I shall see you again?”

”Oh, yes.”

”Does Mrs. Crossthwaite know that you have seen me?”

”Yes. Her husband doesn't. He wouldn't understand.”

John smiled.

”Men never do,” said he. ”They have too keen a sense of what is wrong for other people. When shall I see you?”

”This afternoon.”

”Where?”

”Anywhere----” she paused.

”You were going to say something,” said John quickly. ”What is it?”

She looked away. In the scheme of this world's anomalies, there is such a thing as a duty to oneself. They have not thought it wise to write it in the catechism, for truly it is but capable of so indefinite a rendering into language, that it would be only dangerous to set it forth. For language, after all, is merely a sound box, full of words, in the noisy rattling of which, the finer expression of all thought is lost.

But a thousand times, Jill had thought of it--that duty. Its phrases form quite readily in the mind; they construct themselves with ease; the words flow merrily.