“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 line of the apse-choir with the dim, window-pierced vault above where Christ reigned in majesty.  He let his eyes wander round for a few moments before beginning his deliberate prayer, drinking in the glory of the place, listening to the thunderous chorus, the peal of the organ, and the thin mellow voice of the priest.  There on the left shone the refracted glow of the lamps that burned before the Lord in the Sacrament, on the right a dozen candles winked here and there at the foot of the gaunt images, high overhead hung the gigantic cross with that lean, emaciated Poor Man Who called all who looked on Him to the embraces of a God.

Then he hid his face in his hands, drew a couple of long breaths, and set to work.