m
took his place as cellarer was in the infirmary. Mark was scarcely
prepared for the kind of personality that Hett's proved to be. He had
grown accustomed during his time at the Abbey to look down upon the
protagonists of ecclesiastical battles, so little else did any of the
guests who visited them want to discuss, so much awe was lavished upon
them by Brother Raymond and Brother Augustine. It did not strike Mark
that the fight at St. Agnes' might appear to the large majority of
people as much a foolish squabble over trifles, a cherishing of the
letter rather than the spirit of Christian worship, as the dispute
between Mr. So-and-so and the Bishop of Somewhere-or-other in regard to
his use of the Litany of the Saints in solemn procession on high days
and holy days.

Andrew Hett revived in Mark his admiration of the bigot, which would
have been a dangerous thing to lose in one's early twenties. The
chaplain was a young man of perhaps thirty-five, tall, raw-boned,
sandy-haired, with a complexion of extreme pallor. His light-blue eyes
were very red round the rims, and what eyebrows he possessed slanted up
at a diabolic angle. His voice was harsh, high, and rasping as a guinea
fowl's. When Mark brought him his supper, Hett asked him several
questions about the Abbey time-table, and then said abruptly:

"The ugliness of this place must be soul-destroying."

Mark looked at the Guest-chamber with new eyes. There was such a force
of assertion in Hett's tone that he could not contradict him, and indeed
it certainly was ugly.

"Nobody can live with matchboarded walls and ceilings and not suffer for
it," Hett went on. "Why didn't you buy an old tithe barn and live in
that? It's an insult to Almighty God to worship Him in such
surroundings."

"This is only a beginning," Mark pointed out.

"A very bad beginning," Hett growled. "Such brutalizing ugliness would
be inexcusable if you were leading an active life. But I gather that you
claim to be contemplative here. I've been reading your ridiculous
monthly paper _The Dragon_. Full of sentimental bosh about bringing back
the glories of monasticism to England. Tintern was not built of tin. How
can you contemplate Almighty God here? It's not possible. What Divine
purpose is served by collecting men under hundreds of square feet of
corrugated iron? I'm astonished at Charles Horner. I thought he knew
better than to encourage this kind of abomination."

There was only one answer to