But it seemed to carry no sacred suggestions to the soul of Mr.
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.