had told him so often that the heart is as divine a
gift as the mind, and that to neglect it in the search for God is to
seek ruin, but this priest had scarcely seen the application to himself.
He had answered with the old psychological arguments that the
suggestions of education accounted for everything.

"I suppose you will cast me off," said the other.

"It is you who are leaving me," said Percy. "I cannot follow, if you
mean that."

"But--but cannot we be friends?"

A sudden heat touched the elder priest's heart.

"Friends?" he said. "Is sentimentality all you mean by friendship? What
kind of friends can we be?"

The other's face became suddenly heavy.

"I thought so."

"John!" cried Percy. "You see that, do you not? How can we pretend
anything when you do not believe in God? For I do you the honour of
thinking that you do not."

Francis sprang up.

"Well---" he snapped. "I could not have believed--I am going."

He wheeled towards the door.

"John!" said Percy again. "Are you going like this? Can you not shake
hands?"

The other wheeled again, with heavy anger in his face.

"Why, you said you could not be friends with me!"

Percy's mouth opened. Then he understood, and smiled. "Oh! that is all
you mean by friendship, is it?--I beg your pardon. Oh! we can be polite
to one another, if you like."

He still stood holding out his hand. Father Francis looked at it a
moment, his lips shook: then once more he turned, and went out without a
word.

II

Percy stood motionless until he heard the automatic bell outside tell
him that Father Francis was really gone, then he went out himself and
turned towards the long passage leading to the Cathedral. As he passed
out through the sacristy he heard far in front the murmur of an organ,
and on coming through into the chapel used as a parish church he
perceived that Vespers were not yet over in the great choir. He came
straight down the aisle, turned to the right, crossed the centre and
knelt down.

It was drawing on towards sunset, and the huge dark place was lighted
here and there by patches of ruddy London light that lay on the gorgeous
marble and gildings finished at last by a wealthy convert. In front of
him rose up the choir, with a line of white surpliced and furred canons
on either side, and the vast baldachino in the midst, beneath which
burned the six lights as they had burned day by day for more than a
century; behind that again lay the high l