‘And you still read Latin, classical Latin, easily?’ Father O’Grady inquired.

‘Fairly,’ Father Oliver replied; ’I read without turning to the dictionary, though I often come to words I have never seen or have forgotten the meaning of.  I read on.  The Latin poets are more useful than the English to me.’

‘More useful?’ Father O’Grady repeated.

‘More useful,’ Father Oliver rejoined, ’if your object is a new point of view, and one wants that sometimes, living alone in the silent country.  One sometimes feels frightened sitting by the fire all alone listening to the wind.  I said just now that I was thinking of you.  I often think of you, Father O’Grady, and envy you your busy parish.  If I ever find myself in London I shall go for long tram drives, and however sordid the district I shall view the dim congregation of houses with pleasure and rejoice in the hub of the streets.’

‘You would soon weary of London, I promise you that, Father Oliver.’

‘A promise for which it would be an affectation to thank you,’ Father Oliver answered.  And Father O’Grady spoke of the miles and miles of docks.

‘The great murky Thames,’ he said, ’wearies, but it is very wonderful.  Ah, Landor’s “Hellenics” in the original Latin:  how did that book come here?’

‘A question I’ve often asked myself,’ Father Oliver returned.  ’A most intellectual volume it is to find in the house of an Irish priest.  Books travel, and my predecessor, Father Peter, is the last man in the world who would have cared to spend an hour on anything so literary as Landor.  He used to read the newspaper—­all the newspapers he could get hold of.’

Father Peter’s personality did not detain them long, and feeling somewhat ashamed of their inability to talk naturally, without thinking of what they were to say next, Father O’Grady ventured to doubt if Horace would approve of Landor’s Latin and of the works written in comparatively modern times.  Buchanan, for instance.  At last the conversation became so trite and wearisome that Father O’Grady began to feel unable to continue it any longer.

‘You’ve a nice garden, Father Oliver.’

‘You’d like to see my garden?’ Father Oliver asked, very much relieved at having escaped from Buchanan so easily.  And the two priests went out, each hoping that the other would break the ice; and to encourage Father Oliver to break it, Father O’Grady mentioned that he was going back that evening to Tinnick—­a remark that was intended to remind Father Oliver that the time was passing by.  Father Oliver knew that the time for speaking of her was passing by, but he could not bring himself to speak, and instead he tried to persuade Father O’Grady to stay to dinner, but he could not be persuaded; and they walked to and fro, talking about their different parishes, Father O’Grady asking Father Oliver questions about his school and his church.  And when Father O’Grady had contributed a great