Monsignor had employed his time well.  Not only had he learned accurately the general state of the world, but morning by morning he had familiarized himself with his own work, and felt, by now, very nearly competent to finish his lessons in England.  Cardinal Bellairs communicated with him almost every day, and professed himself delighted with the progress made.  Finally he had talked Latin continually with Father Jervis in preparation for Rome, and would have passed muster, at least, in general conversation.

* * * * *

The two motored into the city from the volor-station outside, and everywhere as they went through the streets and crossed the Tiber on their way to the Leonine City, where they were to lodge, were evidences of the feast.

For the whole route from Vatican to Lateran, which they crossed more than once, was one continual triumphal way.  Masts had been erected, swathed in the Papal colours and crowned with garlands; barriers ran from mast to mast, behind which already the crowds were beginning to gather, though it was hardly past six o’clock in the morning; and from every window hung carpets, banners, and tapestries.  The motor was stopped at least half a dozen times; but the prelate’s insignia passed them through quickly; and it was just half-past six as they drew up before an old palace situated on the right in the road leading from the Tiber to the Vatican, and scarcely a quarter of a mile away from St. Peter’s.

Monsignor glanced up at the carved and painted arms above the doorway and smiled.

“I did not know you were bringing me here,” he said.

“You know it?”

“Why, it’s the old palace where the kings of England lodged, isn’t it?”

Father Jervis smiled.

“Your memory’s improving,” he said.

Then a magnificent servant came out, bowed profoundly, and opened the door of the car.

“By the way,” said Father Jervis as they went in, “I’d better go and enquire the details at the Vatican.  You might give me your card.  I’ll go at once, and then come back and join you at breakfast.”

It was a pleasant little suite of rooms, not unlike in arrangements to those of Versailles.  The windows looked out on the central court, where a fountain played, and the rooms themselves were furnished in the usual Roman fashion—­painted ceilings, stone floors, and a few damask hangings.

Monsignor turned to the servant who was superintending the two Englishmen they had brought.

“I’ve not been in Rome for some time,” he said in Latin.  “Tell me what this house is now?”

“Monsignor, it is the English palace.  Monsignor is in the apartment of His Eminence Cardinal Bellairs.”

“The King himself stays here?”

“It is His Majesty’s palace,” said the man.  “The Prince George arrived two days ago.  His Highness is in the apartment below.”

Monsignor smiled.  He understood now Father Jervis’ evasions as to where they were to stay in Rome.  Plainly it was determined that he should have a front seat at all ceremonies.