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 present; now about this other business; we had better call on Mr Mountjoy, if we want to get a place in the gallery next Sunday. I expect they'll be pretty full.’

‘Yes, we might go this morning; in the afternoon, he’s almost sure to be out.’

A little before noon they rang at Mr Mountjoy’s door in Northbourne Terrace, and were shown into his study, where he was sitting at a writing-table piled with MS. He rose with alacrity to receive his visitors.

‘Bless my soul Abdullam!—my dear Bristley, and Miss Newman—how you are developed! What an age it is since we met!’

‘Abdullam—is that what you call me?’ asked Mr Bristley, as they shook hands. ‘Ah, I twig; good, very good. A new set of the letters, eh! Not the Servant of the World, but the Father of Dulham. Very neat.’

‘Or if you read Adullam,’ said Mr Mountjoy, ‘then like the stream in the song, you go on for ever; at any rate, your work will. But I have another appellation for you two—Light and Leading.’

‘My light is undoubtedly due to my uncle’s leading, Mr Mountjoy,’ said Lesbia. ‘I have lately been trying to shed it in an important direction; a short time will show whether successfully or not. But it is your leading we are come about; we want tickets for the gallery next Sunday, if you have any to spare.’

‘You are just in time, I have these two left. But, Miss Newman, may I not hope to see you enshrined in the costume of the Sea-born, with some worthy suppliant at your feet? We work for the same ends, you know.’

‘You work for my ends,—the elevation of my sex, Mr Mountjoy?’ said Lesbia seriously. ‘Well, I thought you did; I was sure of it. But I should like to understand exactly how the Mylittic ritual is to elevate woman.’