There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it. “TROUSERS!” she whispered. Spurling, and her now accepted suitor, resumed their seats. There was a murmur or two among the watchers on the bench, but no one ventured to intervene again. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved. All at once her heart began to patter queerly. "I'll have to set you right on that, too. He laughed reassuringly. You met Sir Rowland at the house of a Romisch priest, Father Spencer.
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