'I've got your book,' Jean said, looking at Miss Levering over the top of the telegraph form, and then glancing at the title as she restored the volume to its owner. 'Dante! Whereabouts are you?' She opened it without waiting to hear. 'Oh, the Inferno.'
'No, I'm in a worse place,' said the other, smiling vaguely as she drew on her gloves.
'I didn't know there was a worse.'
'Yes, it's worse with the Vigliacchi.'
'I forget, were they Guelf or Ghibelline?'
'They weren't either, and that was why Dante couldn't stand them. He said there was no place in Heaven nor in Purgatory—not even a corner in Hell, for the souls who had stood aloof from strife.' The smile faded as she stood there looking steadily into the girl's eyes. 'He called them "wretches who never lived," Dante did, because they'd never felt the pangs of partisanship. And so they wander homeless on the skirts of limbo, among the abortions and off-scourings of Creation.'
The girl drew a fluttering breath. Miss Levering glanced at the clock, and turned away to make her leisurely adieux among the group at the window.
Mrs. Heriot left it at once. 'What was that about a telephone message, Jean darling?'
The girl glanced at the paper, and then quite suddenly said to Lady John—
'Aunt Ellen, I've got to go to London!'