‘You won’t be warned, then?’

‘No, Jack.’

‘You can’t be warned, then?’

’No, Jack, not by you.  Besides that I don’t really consider myself in danger, I don’t like your putting yourself in that position.’

‘Shall we go and walk in the churchyard?’

’By all means.  You won’t mind my slipping out of it for half a moment to the Nuns’ House, and leaving a parcel there?  Only gloves for Pussy; as many pairs of gloves as she is years old to-day.  Rather poetical, Jack?’

Mr. Jasper, still in the same attitude, murmurs:  ’"Nothing half so sweet in life,” Ned!’

’Here’s the parcel in my greatcoat-pocket.  They must be presented to-night, or the poetry is gone.  It’s against regulations for me to call at night, but not to leave a packet.  I am ready, Jack!’

Mr. Jasper dissolves his attitude, and they go out together.

CHAPTER III—­THE NUNS’ HOUSE

For sufficient reasons, which this narrative will itself unfold as it advances, a fictitious name must be bestowed upon the old Cathedral town.  Let it stand in these pages as Cloisterham.  It was once possibly known to the Druids by another name, and certainly to the Romans by another, and to the Saxons by another, and to the Normans by another; and a name more or less in the course of many centuries can be of little moment to its dusty chronicles.

An ancient city, Cloisterham, and no meet dwelling-place for any one with hankerings after the noisy world.  A monotonous, silent city, deriving an earthy flavour throughout from its Cathedral crypt, and so abounding in vestiges of monastic graves, that the Cloisterham children grow small salad in the dust of abbots and abbesses, and make dirt-pies of nuns and friars; while every ploughman in its outlying fields renders to once puissant Lord Treasurers, Archbishops, Bishops, and such-like, the attention which the Ogre in the story-book desired to render to his unbidden visitor, and grinds their bones to make his bread.

A drowsy city, Cloisterham, whose inhabitants seem to suppose, with an inconsistency more strange than rare, that all its changes lie behind it, and that there are no more to come.  A queer moral to derive from antiquity, yet older than any traceable antiquity.  So silent are the streets of Cloisterham (though prone to echo on the smallest provocation), that of a summer-day the sunblinds of its shops scarce dare to flap in the south wind; while the sun-browned tramps, who pass along and stare, quicken their limp a little, that they may the sooner get beyond the confines of its oppressive respectability.  This is a feat not difficult of achievement, seeing that the streets of Cloisterham city are little more than one narrow street by which you get into it and get out of it:  the rest being mostly disappointing yards with pumps in them and no thoroughfare—­exception made of the Cathedral-close, and a paved Quaker settlement, in colour and general confirmation very like a Quakeress’s bonnet, up in a shady corner.