“There is no possible objection, my dear,” said Mrs. Portheris, and she nibbled it.

Dicky invested wildly.

“Dese photograff dey are very pritty,” remarked Brother Demetrius to momma, who was turning over some St. Stephens and St. Cecilias.

“He’d say anything to sell them,” put in Brother Eusebius.  “He never thinks of his immortal soul, any more than if he was a poor miserable heretic.  He’ll tell you they’re originals next, taken by Nero at the time.  You’re all good Catholics, of course?”

“We are not any kind of Catholics,” said Mrs. Portheris severely.

“I’ll give you my blessing all the same, and no extra charge.  But the saints forbid that I should be selling beads made out of their precious bones to Protestants.”

“I’ll take that string,” said momma.

“I wouldn’t do it on any account,” continued Brother Eusebius, as he wrapped them up in blue paper, but momma still attaches a certain amount of veneration to those beads.

“And what can I do for you, sir?” continued Brother Eusebius to the Senator, rubbing his hands.  “What’ll be the next thing?”

“The Early Christians,” replied poppa laconically, “if it’s all the same to you.”

“Just in half a shake.  Don’t hurry yourselves.  They’ll keep, you know—­they’ve kept a good long while already.  Now you, madam,” said Brother Eusebius to Mrs. Portheris, “have never had the influenza, I know.  It only attacks people advanced in life.”

“Indeed I have,” replied that lady.  “Twice.”

“Is that so!  Well, you never would have had it if you’d been protected with this liqueur of ours.  It’s death and burial on influenza,” and Brother Eusebius shook the bottle.

“I consider,” said Mrs. Portheris solemnly, “that eucalyptus in another form saved my life.  But I inhaled it.”

“Tho,” ventured Brother Demetrius, “tho did I. But the wine ith for internal drinking.”

“Listen to him! Eternal drinking, that’s what he means.  You never saw such an old boy for the influenza—­gets it every week or so.  How many bottles, madam?  Just a nip, after dinner, and you don’t know how poetic it will make you feel into the bargain.”

“One bottle,” replied Mrs. Portheris, “the larger size, please.  Anything with eucalyptus in it must be salutary.  And as we are going underground, where it is bound to be damp, I think I’ll have a little now.”

“That’s what I call English common-sense,” exclaimed Brother Eusebius, getting out a glass.  “Will nobody keep the lady company?  It’s Popish, but it’s good.”

Nobody would.  Momma observed rather uncautiously that the smell of it was enough, at which Mrs. Portheris remarked, with some asperity, that she hoped Mrs. Wick would never be obliged to be indebted to the “smell.”  “It is quite excellent,” she said, “most cordial.  I really think, as a precaution, I’ll take another glass.”