"'Oh, moon of my delight....'" she declaimed, then her eye met William's. The eyes beneath her pince-nez were like little gimlets.
"How dare you stare at me, you rude boy?" she said.
William gasped.
"I shall write to your father," she said fiercely, and then proceeded still ferociously, "'... that knows no wane.'"
"Crumbs!" murmured William, descending slowly from his perch.
She did write to his father, and that note was the first of many. She objected to his singing, she objected to his shouting, she objected to his watching her over the wall, and she objected to his throwing sticks at her cat. She objected both verbally and in writing. This persecution was only partly compensated for by occasional glimpses of meetings of the Ancient Souls. For the Ancient Souls met in costume, and sometimes William could squeeze through the hole in the fence and watch the Ancient Souls meeting in the dining-room. Miss Gregoria Mush arrayed as Mary, Queen of Scots (one of her many previous existences) was worth watching. And always there was the garden on the other side. Mr. Gregorius Lambkin made no objections and wrote no notes. But clouds of Fate were gathering round Mr. Gregorius Lambkin. William first heard of it one day at lunch.
"I saw the old luny talking to poor little Lambkin to-day," said Robert, William's elder brother.
In these terms did Robert refer to the august President of the Society of Ancient Souls.
And the next news Robert brought home was that "poor little Lambkin" had joined the Society of Ancient Souls, but didn't seem to want to talk about it. He seemed very vague as to his previous existence, but he said that Miss Gregoria Mush was sure that he had been Julius Cæsar. The knowledge had come to her in a flash when he raised his hat and she saw his bald head.