This was disrespectful, but consider the annoyance of losing a third of our forces against seven million Early Christian ghosts.  We sat down, Dicky and I, with our backs against the tomb of Mrs. Portheris, and when Dicky suggested that I might like him to hold my hand for a little while I made no objection whatever.  We decided that the immediate prospect, though uncomfortable, was not alarming, that we had been wandering about for possibly an hour, judging by the dwindling of Dicky’s candle, and that search must be made for us as soon as ever the others went above ground and heard from Brother Demetrius the tale of our abandonment.  I said that if I knew anything about momma’s capacity for underground walking, the other party would have gone up long ago, and that search for us was, therefore, in all likelihood, proceeding now, though perhaps it would be wiser, in case we might want them, to burn only one candle at a time.  We had only to listen intently and we would hear the voices of the searchers.  We did listen, but all that we heard was a faint far distant moan, which Dicky tried to make me believe was the wind in a ventilating shaft.  We could also hear a prolonged thumping very close to us, but that we could each account for personally.  And nothing more.

“Dicky,” said I after a time, “if it weren’t for the candle I believe I should be frightened.”

“It’s about the most parsimonious style of candle I’ve ever seen,” replied Dicky, “but it would give a little more light if it were trimmed.”  And he opened his pocket-knife.

“Be very careful,” I begged, and Dicky said “Rather!”

“Did you ever notice,” he asked, “that you can touch flame all right if you are only quick enough?  Now, see me take the top off that candle.”  If Dicky had a fault it was a tendency to boastfulness.  He took the lighted wick between his thumb and his knife-blade, and skilfully scooped the top off.  It blazed for two seconds on the edge of the blade—­just long enough to show us that all the flame had come with it.  Then it went out, and in the darkness at my side I heard a scuffling among waistcoat pockets, and a groan.

“No matches?” I asked in despair.

“Left ’em in my light overcoat pockets, Mamie.  I’m a bigger ass than—­than Mafferton.”

“You are,” I said with decision.  “No Englishman goes anywhere without his light overcoat.  What have you done with yours?”

“Left it in the carriage,” replied Dick humbly.

“That shows,” said I bitterly, “how little you have learned in England.  Propriety in connection with you is evidently like water and a duck’s back.  An intelligent person would have acquired the light overcoat principle in three days, and never have gone out without it afterward.”

“Oh, go on!” replied Dick fiercely.  “Go on.  I don’t mind.  I’m not so stuck on myself as I was.  But if we’ve got to die together you might as well forgive me.  You’ll have to do it at the last moment, you know.”