of all the knowledge that he had, and the
constant contemplation of the cold facts of the case, it seemed
to him, as on a dozen occasions before since his lapse of memory,
as if life were not so real as it seemed. Somewhere, down in the
very fibre of him, was an assumption that England and Catholicism
were irreconcilable things--that the domination of the one meant
the suppression of the other. Certainly history was against him.
For more than a thousand years Church and State in England had
been partners. It was but for four hundred years--and those years
of confusion and of the gradual elimination of the
supernatural--that the two had been at cross-purposes. Was it not
historically certain therefore that, should the Supernatural ever
be reaccepted in all its force, a partnership should again spring
up between a State that needed a Divine authority behind its own,
and the sole Institution which was not afraid to stand out for
the Supernatural with all its consequences? Theology was against
him; for if there was anything that theology taught explicitly,
it was that the soul was naturally Christian, and therefore
imperfect without the full Christian Revelation.

And yet, as he walked, he was disturbed. The proposed
Establishment of the Church by the State appeared to him
uncharacteristic of both--of the Church, since he still tended to
think that she must in her essence be at war with the world; of
the State, since he still tended to think that that too, in its
essence, must be at war with religion. In spite of what he had
seen, he had not yet grasped with his imagination that which both
experience and intellect justified as true--namely, that it is
the function of the Church to guide the world, and the highest
wisdom of the world to organize itself on a supernatural basis.

He walked up and down, saying nothing. At one end of the long
corridor a couple of secretaries whispered together on a settee;
at the other he saw passing and repassing hurrying figures that
went about their business. Doors opened occasionally, and a man
came out; once or twice he saluted an acquaintance. But all the
while his attention remained fixed upon the door numbered XI,
behind which this quietly significant affair proceeded. The whole
place seemed a very temple of stillness. The thick carpet
underfoot, the noiseless doors, the admirable system of the
place--all contributed to create a great solemnity.

He tried to remind himself that he