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"And," said Power, "my Mrs. Elliott's story is that Mick O'Neill, our head man, has lost his head over her."

King bowed reverently in the dark. "She must be wonderful—a poem of golden words, a melody of diamond notes. She must be fit to rank with those dead women generations of men have sung about. The Helen of Homer: Deirdre, princess of Ulster, whom four kings fought over, and for love of whom three brothers slew themselves: Poppæa, mistress of Nero, for whose bath five hundred asses let down their milk: a Ninon de l'Enclos, who rode abroad on early autumn mornings, while the poor brutal peasants covered themselves, believing an angel passed by. When I go down the pipe line, I shall take my fly-veil with me that my sight may not be destroyed."

"You may meet me there, with or without a veil," said Power.

"Don't count yet on going, Mr.-my-friend-Power," Maud Neville said. "I must look myself first."

"And now," said King, leaning heavily forward in his chair which creaked out loud, "I think it becomes me to salute such loveliness." He stretched a hand for the whisky and poured out a noble peg.