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Dyceworthy. On the contrary, he looked at it with an expression of meek
ridicule,--ridicule that bordered on contempt.
"A Roman," he murmured placidly to himself, between two large bites of
toast. "The girl is a Roman, and thereby hopelessly damned."
And he smiled again,--more sweetly than before, as though the idea of
hopeless damnation suggested some peculiarly agreeable reflections.
Unfolding his fine cologne-scented cambric handkerchief, he carefully
wiped his fat white fingers free from the greasy marks of the toast,
and, taking up the objectionable cross gingerly, as though it were
red-hot, he examined it closely on all sides. There were some words
engraved on the back of it, and after some trouble Mr. Dyceworthy spelt
them out. They were "_Passio Christi, conforta me. Thelma._"
He shook his head with a sort of resigned cheerfulness.
"Hopelessly damned," he murmured again gently, "unless--"
What alternative suggested itself to his mind was not precisely
apparent, for his thoughts suddenly turned in a more frivolous
direction.


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