the village band; and all the old women in the place hung out
Union Jacks to show they believed in him. And then his wife gave a
party."

Michael looked horrified and felt horrified at this revelation of
vileness, and yet, all the time he was listening, through some
grotesquery of his nerves he was aware of thinking to himself the jingle
of Little Bo-peep.

"Ah, that's touched you up, hasn't it?" said Meats, eagerly leaning
forward. "But wait a bit. What did my mother do when she came out? Went
on the streets. Do you hear? On the streets, and mark you, she was a
servant, a common village servant, none of your flash Empire goods. Oh,
no, she never knew what it was like to go up the river on a Sunday
afternoon. And she drank. Well, of course she drank. Gin was as near as
she ever got to paradise. And where was I brought up? Not among the
buttercups, my friend, you may lay on that. No, I was down underneath,
underneath, underneath where a chap like you will never go because
you're a gentleman. And so, though, of course, you're never likely to
ruin a girl, you'll always have your fun. Why shouldn't you? Being a
nicely brought-up young gentleman, it's your birthright."

"But how on earth did you ever become a monk?" asked Michael, anxious to
divert the conversation away from himself.

"Well, it does sound a bit improbable, I must say. I was recommended
there by a priest--a nice chap called Arbuthnot who'd believe a
chimney-sweep was a miller. But Manners was very sharp on to me, and I
was very sharp on to Manners. Picking blackberries and emptying slops!
What a game! I came with a character and left without one. Probationer
was what they called me. Silly mug was what I called myself."

"You seem to know a lot of priests," said Michael.

"Oh, I've been in with parsons since I was at Sunday-school. Well, don't
look so surprized. You don't suppose my mother wanted me hanging round
all the afternoon! Now I very soon found out that one can always get
round a High Church slum parson, and very often a Catholic priest by
turning over a new leaf and confessing. It gets them every time, and
being by nature generous, it gets their pockets. That's why I gave up
Dissenters and fashionable Vicars. Dissenters want more than they give,
and fashionable Vicars are too clever. That's why they become
fashionable Vicars, I suppose," said Meats pensively.

"But you couldn't go on taking in even priests for ever," Michael
objected.

"Ah,