I was soon making the best of my own
society in the way of intelligent companionship, shaking crumbs of
half-forgotten history out of my memory, and finding a dried currant of
fact here and there. In convent days there was hardly a saint or
saintess with whom I hadn't a bowing acquaintance, and although a good
many have cut me since, I can generally recall something about them, if
necessary, as title worshippers can about the aristocracy. I thought
hard for a minute, and suddenly up rolled a curtain in my mind, and
there in his niche stood St. Gilles. He was born in Athens, and was a
most highly connected saint, with the blood of Greek kings in his veins,
all of which was eventually spilled like water in the name of religion.
It seemed very suitable that such perfection of carving and proportion
as was shown in steps, towers, facade, and frieze should be dedicated to
a Greek saint, who must have adored and understood true beauty as few of
his brother saints could.
Mr. Dane had said, just before I started, that there was a gem of a
spiral staircase, called the Vis de St.
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