“That sarcophagus,”—­continued his lordship—­“was a very singular ‘find.’  I suppose you have no clue to the possible identity of the saint or sinner whose ashes repose within it?”

“None,”—­replied Walden—­“Something might probably be discovered if the casket were opened.  But that will never happen during my lifetime.”

“You would consider it sacrilege, no doubt?” queried Roxmouth, with a tolerant air.

“I should, most certainly!”

“Nonsense, nonsense!” said Sir Morton Pippitt, obtruding himself on the conversation at this moment—­“God bless my soul!  Not so very long ago every churchyard in England used to have its regular clean out—­ha-ha-ha!—­all the bones and skulls used to be dug up and thrown together in a charnel house, higgledy-piggledy—­and nobody ever talked about sacrilege!  You should progress with the age, Mr. Walden!—­you should progress!  Why shouldn’t a coffin be opened as readily as any other box, eh?  There’s generally nothing inside—­ha-ha-ha!—­nothing inside worth keeping, ha-ha-ha!  The plan of a spring-cleaning for churchyards was an excellent one, I think;—­God bless my soul!—­why not?—­makes room for more hodies and saves extra land being given up to those who are past farming it, except in the way of manure, ha-ha-ha!  There’s no such thing as sacrilege nowadays, Mr. Walden!—­why we’ve got the photograph of Rameses, taken after a few thousand years’ decomposition had set in—­ha-ha-ha!  And not bad looking—­not bad looking!—­rather wild about the eyes, that’s all—­ha-ha!  God bless my soul!”

These choice observations of the knight Pippitt were brought to a happy conclusion by the marshalling of the guests into dinner.  Sir Morton, much to his chagrin, found himself deputed to escort Lady Wicketts, whose unwieldy proportions allied to his own, made it difficult for both to pass with proper dignity through the dining-room doorway.  A little excited whispering between Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay and Lady Beaulyon took place, as to whether ‘Maryllia Van’ in her professed detestation of Lord Roxmouth, would forget etiquette and the rule of ’precedence’—­but they soon saw she did not intend to so commit herself.  For when all her guests had passed in before her, she followed resignedly on the arm of the future Duke.  As the greatest stranger, and as the highest in social rank of all present, he had claim to this privilege, and she was too tactful to refuse it.

“What a delightful chatelaine you are!” he murmured, looking down at her as she rested her little gloved hand with scarce a touch on his arm—­“And how proud and glad I am to be once more beside you!  Ah, Maryllia, you are very cruel to me!  If you would only realise how happy we could be—­always together!”