(_Slowly reading_)--ten infant children of King James the Second, and eighteen infant children of Queen--
Sure enough, it does sound ticklish! But hush, Wetherell: people will hear. (_They descend._) That verger in the dim amber light, standing in the dear little doorway of S. John's, will let us see the cases in the chantry. You have to show the Dean's pass. Wait a moment: I must get mine. (_He draws a card from his pocket and approaches the verger, who immediately leads the way to the stair of the Islip Chapel._)
(_First on the stair, five minutes after._) Ghastly things! Truly, aren't they perfectly appalling?
Oh, it's wax, you know, _isn't_ it? We think them uncommonly precious. So ancient, ma'am. Carried at their own funerals, and dressed in their own clothes. King Charles the Second, this is: he's the oldest genuine one of those we show.
Can it be possible that this lace all black with age, this beautiful lace--? Yes, it is point! (_Hangs enraptured._)
The head is surprisingly fine, for anything of the half-spook half-dolly order. You say it was modelled on the death-mask?
I like it better than any of the portraits. It gives one a gentler impression, somehow. Who are these? (_He and his wife move on to the Duchess of Buckinghamshire and Queen Anne._)
As for me, I shall stay with you, of course, my poor old never-obsolete Most Sacred Majesty. What a pity you shirked your work so!
"Qu'as-tu fait, ô toi que voilà, De ta jeunesse?"
Ah, well! It is not beyond my right to say that to you, since I am the only one alive who loves you.
Cousin Rhoda! Rhoda! Percy! We saw you come up, from where the Coronation Chair is; and the little door was left open. Oh, isn't this splendid to find you? How DO you do?
I beg your pardon, gentlemen; Evensong is just about to begin.
Thank you; then we the heathen must go at once. Clay, let me present you to---- See: he's in dreamland.
I wonder if thoughts of dinner can rouse him.
Not unless you can provide the suitably archaic wild boar, and the flask of canary.
You both look so well! Dreadful, Percy, if you'll believe it. The stewardess said there had not been such a passage for--
Hurry, Cornelia. The service is beginning.
(_A strain from the organ wakes Clay. He follows them down, tiptoeing past the filling pews, covering the oak-twig still in his hat._)