“No,” I said, “to be honest, I don’t.”

“You must take to it again,” he said.  “You can’t get on without prayer.  And if you come here,” he said, “you may expect to hear about God.  I talk a good deal about God.  I don’t believe in things being too sacred to talk about—­it’s the bad things that ought not to be mentioned.  I am interested in God, more than I am interested in anything else.  I can’t make Him out—­and yet I believe that He needs me, in a way, as much as I need Him.  Does that sound profane to you?”

“No,” I said, “it’s new to me.  No one ever spoke about God to me like that before.”

“We have to suffer with Him!” he said in a curious tone, his face lighting up.  “That is the point of Christianity, that God suffers, because He wants to remake the world, and cannot do it all at once.  That is the secret of all life and hope, that if we believe in God, we must suffer with Him.  It’s a fight, a hard fight; and He needs us on His side:  But I won’t talk about that now; yet if you don’t want to believe in God, and to be friends with Him, and to fight and suffer with Him, you needn’t think of coming here.  That’s behind all I do.  And to come here is simply that you may find out where He needs you.  Why writing is important is, because the world needs freer and plainer talk about God—­about beauty and health and happiness and energy, and all the things which He stands for.  Half the evil comes from silence, and the end of all my experiments is the word in the New Testament, Ephphatha—­Be opened!  That is what I try for, to give men the power of opening their hearts and minds to others, without fear and yet without offence.  I don’t want men to attack things or to criticise things, but just to speak plainly about what is beautiful and wholesome and true.  So you see this isn’t a place for lazy and fanciful people—­not a fortress of quiet, and still less a place for asses to slake their thirst!  We don’t set out to amuse ourselves, but to perceive things, and to say them if we can.  My men must be sound and serious, and they must be civil and amusing too.  They have got to learn how to get on with each other, and with me, and with the village people—­and with God!  If you want just to dangle about, this isn’t the place for you; but if you want to work hard and be knocked into shape, I’ll consider it.”

There was something tremendous about Father Payne!  I looked at him with a sense of terror.  His face dissolved in a smile.  “You needn’t look at me like that!” he said.  “I only want you to know exactly what you are in for!”

“I would like to try,” I said.

“Well, we’ll see!” he said.  “And now you must be off!” he added.  “We shall dine in an hour—­you needn’t dress.  Here, you don’t know which your room is, I suppose?”

He rang the bell, and I went off with the old butler, who was amiable and communicative.  “So, you think of becoming one of the gentlemen, sir?” he said.  “If you’ll have me,” I replied.  “Oh, that will be all right, sir,” he said.  “I could see that the Father took to you at first sight!”