Mr. Merryman deplored journalese and had the poorest possible opinion of the methods of the police, but the story itself quite fascinated him. He read slowly and methodically, wincing at stylistic solecisms and bitterly resentful of Miss Abbott’s trespassing glances. “Detested kite!” Mr. Merryman silently apostrophized her. “Blasts and fogs upon you! Why in the names of all the gods at once can you not buy your own disnatured newspaper!”

He turned to page 6, the Evening Herald out of Miss Abbott’s line of sight, read column 2 as quickly as possible, folded the newspaper, rose, and offered it to her with a bow.

“Madam,” Mr. Merryman said, “allow me. No doubt you prefer, as I confess I do, the undisputed possession of your chosen form of literature. Perhaps you have already seen it?”

“No,” said Miss Abbott loudly. “I haven’t and what’s more, I don’t want to. Thank you.”

Father Charles Jourdain muttered whimsically to his brother-cleric, “Seeds of discord! Seeds of discord!” They were in the seat opposite and could scarcely escape noticing the incident.

“I do hope,” the brother-cleric murmured, “that you find someone moderately congenial.”

“In my experience there is always someone.”

“And you are an experienced traveller.” The other sighed, rather wistfully.

“Would you have liked the job so much, Father? I’m sorry.”

“No, no, no, please don’t think it for a moment, really. I would carry no weight in Durban. Father Superior, as always, has made the wisest possible choice. And you are glad to be going — I hope?”

Father Jourdain waited for a moment and then said, “Oh, yes. Yes. I’m glad to go.”

“It will be so interesting. The community in Africa—”

They settled down to talk Anglo-Catholic shop.

Mrs. Cuddy, overhearing them, smelt Popery.

Tlie remaining ship’s passenger in the bus took no notice at all of her companions.