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two, because Bolshevism only smashes your house or your business or your skull, but Americanism smashes your soul.”

“Who was he?” snarled the Judge.

“I forget,” said Henry, wickedly.

“One wonders,” said Mrs Norris slowly, “what he meant by Americanism.”

“He didn't define it,” said Henry. “Cult of the dollar, I suppose.”

“Well,” said Mrs Norris. “The cult of the dollar, in my experience, is far more intense in the countries that haven't got the dollar, than in the United States.”

Kate felt that the table was like a steel disc to which they were all, as victims, magnetised and bound.

“Where is your garden, Mrs Norris?” she asked.

They trooped out, gasping with relief, to the terrace. The Judge hobbled behind, and Kate had to linger sympathetically to keep him company.

They were on the little terrace.

“Isn't this strange stuff!” said Kate, picking up one of the Aztec stone knives on the parapet. “Is it a sort of jade?”

“Jade!” snarled the Judge. “Jade's green, not black. That's obsidian.”

“Jade can be black,” said Kate. “I've got a lovely little black tortoise of jade from China.”

“You can't have. Jade's bright green.”

“But there's white jade too. I know there is.”

The Judge was silent from exasperation for a few moments, then he snapped:

“Jade's bright green.”

Owen, who had the ears of a lynx, had heard.

“What's that?” he said.

“Surely there's more than green jade!” said Kate.

“What!” cried Owen. “More! Why there's every imaginable tint—white, rose, lavender—”

“And black?” said Kate.

“Black? Oh yes, quite common. Why you should see my collection. The most beautiful range of colour! Only green jade! Ha-ha-ha!”—and he laughed a rather stage laugh.

They had come to the stairs, which were old stone, waxed and polished in some way till they were a glittering black.