"There are a great many two-syllabled kings' names," says Esther, with a prodigious effort to look intelligent and interested: "Edward, Henry, Louis, Ahab, Alfred, Joash!"
"I daresay it is one of those Jewish kings," says Constance, reflectively; "they are always fond of introducing Bible names into acrostics. Is there a Bible anywhere about, St. John?"
St. John walks slowly round the well-laden tables; looks over photograph books, Doré's "Elaine," Flaxman's "Dante;" but in vain. He comes back, and shakes his head.
"I will go and fetch one," says Constance, rising with noiseless grace, and rustling softly away among the console tables.
"May she long be occupied in searching the Scriptures for a dissyllabic king!" cries Gerard, drawing a long breath, and yawning as the door closes behind her.
"I am glad she is gone," says Esther, looking rather embarrassed, "as I have something to say to you."
"Say on."
"I must go home to-morrow," she continues, drawing hideous faces and wooden-legged cows on her bit of paper.
"Are you beginning to try experiments on me already?" he asks, incredulously, leaning his folded arms on the little table which forms a barrier between them.
"No; but I have received a letter from Jack this morning, which——"