utting an occasional question, but listening
throughout with great attention.

"And your recommendations, father---" he had said, and then interrupted
himself. "No, that is too much to ask. The Holy Father will speak of
that."

He had congratulated him upon his Latin then--for they had spoken in
that language throughout this second interview; and Percy had explained
how loyal Catholic England had been in obeying the order, given ten
years before, that Latin should become to the Church what Esperanto was
becoming to the world.

"That is very well," said the old man. "His Holiness will be pleased at
that."

At his second tap the door opened and the Cardinal came out, taking him
by the arm without a word; and together they turned to the lift
entrance.

Percy ventured to make a remark as they slid noiselessly up towards the
papal apartment.

"I am surprised at the lift, your Eminence, and the typewriter in the
audience-room."

"Why, father?"

"Why, all the rest of Rome is back in the old days."

The Cardinal looked at him, puzzled.

"Is it? I suppose it is. I never thought of that."

A Swiss guard flung back the door of the lift, saluted and went before
them along the plain flagged passage to where his comrade stood. Then he
saluted again and went back. A Pontifical chamberlain, in all the sombre
glory of purple, black, and a Spanish ruff, peeped from the door, and
made haste to open it. It really seemed almost incredible that such
things still existed.

"In a moment, your Eminence," he said in Latin. "Will your Eminence wait
here?"

It was a little square room, with half-a-dozen doors, plainly contrived
out of one of the huge old halls, for it was immensely high, and the
tarnished gilt cornice vanished directly in two places into the white
walls. The partitions, too, seemed thin; for as the two men sat down
there was a murmur of voices faintly audible, the shuffling of
footsteps, and the old eternal click of the typewriter from which Percy
hoped he had escaped. They were alone in the room, which was furnished
with the same simplicity as the Cardinal's--giving the impression of a
curious mingling of ascetic poverty and dignity by its red-tiled floor,
its white walls, its altar and two vast bronze candlesticks of
incalculable value that stood on the dais. The shutters here, too, were
drawn; and there was nothing to distract Percy from the excitement that
surged up now tenfold in heart and brain.

It was