"This young gentleman," he suggested. "Mr. Parslewe's son, perhaps?"
"No!" said Madrasia. "A visitor."
Sir Charles looked sorry and discomfited. He fidgeted a little, nervously.
"Will you sit down, Sir Charles?" asked Madrasia.
He sat down. He took a chair between the centre table and the sideboard. He looked at Madrasia with interest—and, I thought, with decided admiration.
"Thank you!" he said. "I—ah, deeply regret Mr. Parslewe's absence. I have heard of Mr. Parslewe—as a distinguished antiquary."
"Oh!" said Madrasia. "Distinguished?"
"Distinguished!" cooed Sir Charles. "Distinguished!"
"Odd!" remarked Madrasia. "I thought he was only a dabbler. That's what he considers himself to be, I'm sure."
Sir Charles waved a fat, white hand.
"Prophets, my dear young lady, are said to have no honour in their own country," he observed with a knowing smile. "And your truly learned man usually considers himself
