Rosalind snatched up a bucket and put it down again rather violently, but said no more. It will soon blow over, thought Florence.

It blew over. Saint Luke remained in his prime beauty, and the cult continued, though now, identifications having been established, the votive infants were christened Harold. Except for some dutiful aspirations that Geoffrey might now and then be called on to sprinkle a James, a Daniel, or even a Geoffrey, Florence had not a care in the world. As Edward VII succeeded Victoria, and the harmonium gave place to an organ, and the crimson curtains mellowed, Harold’s mellowing career in the Civil Service took him and his family to Cairo. It was from Cairo that the telegram came: this time harold has gone too far am returning with children rosalind.

Florence, having read it through, exclaimed, ‘Goodness! Geoffrey, do attend. This is from Rosalind, and she says Harold has gone too far and she’s coming here with the children. What on earth can she mean?’

‘A woman,’ said Geoffrey, coming up from Saint Jerome.

Florence said she couldn’t believe it; Harold was attractive, but not that kind of man. A letter from Daniel, in the course of which he remarked that there were some odd rumours about Harold going the rounds and that he was 239afraid poor Rosie would have to open her eyes at last, shook her disbelief, and when it was followed by thirteen closely written pages from Rosalind, with exclamatory postscripts squeezed into all their corners, the last hope of incredulity vanished.

And with an acrobat, too!

The letter with the story of Mlle Zizi came on a Saturday. By the following Wednesday, Rosalind and her children would be arriving at Woodham Garnish. ‘I must change everything as much as possible!’ cried Florence. ‘We can’t have the house looking just the same as it did when they were here together. I have decided to turn the spare room into the nursery, and put Rosalind into—’ She was about to say ‘—your dressing-room,’ when the thought of a more essential change stopped her breath. Harold could not possibly be left flaunting in the character of St Luke. Too full of purpose to explain her intentions, she hurried off to the church with her paints, brushes and palette, seated herself on the altar, and set to work.

But now something went wrong. Try as she might to expurgate him, Harold continued to exercise a demoniacal possession of Saint Luke. Twice and thrice it seemed to her that she had got him down under quite a new countenance, and each time some final improvement—the arching of an eyebrow, the flaring of a nostril—conjured him back. Realizing that she was at the mercy of her talent for catching likenesses, she resolved to base a Saint Luke on Mr Pawsey. This came better. As a basic Saint Luke, Mr Pawsey was everything that a rector’s warden should be, helpful 240yet unobtrusive. Satisfied at last, Florence scrambled off the altar and took the artist’s few paces back to view the completed work. It was no use. Draped in Mr Pawsey’s cheeks, and leering through Mr Pawsey’s mild blue eyes, Harold surveyed her with a sardonic bo-peep.