“Late for what?”

“Is that you, Mark, down there?” asked the Missioner.

“I’m lighting Mr. Mousley across the gymnasium,” Mark explained.  “I think I’d better take him up to his room.”

“If your young friend is as clever at managing rooms as he is at managing houses we shall get on splendidly, Father Rowley.  I have perfect confidence in his manner with rooms.  He soothed this house in the most remarkable way.  It was jumping about like a pea in a pod till he caught hold of the reins.”

“Mark, go to bed.  I will see Mr. Mousley to his room.”

“Several years ago,” said the drunken priest.  “I went with an old friend to see Miss Ellen Terry as Lady Macbeth.  The resemblance between Father Rowley and Miss Ellen Terry is very remarkable.  Good-night, Lidderdale, I am perfectly comfortable on this mat.  Good-night.”

In the gallery above Mark, who had not dared to disobey Father Rowley’s orders, asked him what was to be done to get Mr. Mousley to bed.

“Go and wake Cartwright and Warrender to help me to get him upstairs,” the Missioner commanded.

“I can help you. . . .”  Mark began.

“Do what I say,” said the Missioner curtly.

In the morning Father Rowley sent for Mark to give his account of what had happened the night before, and when Mark had finished his tale, the priest sat for a while in silence.

“Are you going to send him away?” Mark asked.

“Send him away?” Father Rowley repeated.  “Where would I send him?  If he can’t keep off drink in this house and in these surroundings where else will he keep off drink?  No, I’m only amused at my optimism.”

There was a knock on the door.

“I expect that is Mr. Mousley,” said Mark.  “I’ll leave you with him.”

“No, don’t go away,” said the Missioner.  “If Mousley didn’t mind your seeing him as he was last night, there’s no reason why this morning he should mind your hearing my comments upon his behaviour.”

The tap on the door was repeated.

“Come in, come in, Mousley, and take a seat.”

Mr. Mousley walked timidly across the room and sat on the very edge of the chair offered him by Father Rowley.  He was a quiet, rather drab little man, the kind of little man who always loses his seat in a railway carriage and who always gets pushed further up in an omnibus, one of life’s pawns.  The presence of Mark did not seem to affect him, for no sooner was he seated than he began to apologize with suspicious rapidity, as if by now his apologies had been reduced to a formula.

“I really must apologize, Father Rowley, for my lateness last night and for coming in, I fear, slightly the worse for liquor.  The fact is I had a little headache and went to the chemist for a pick-me-up, on top of which I met an old college friend, and though I don’t think I had more than two glasses of beer I may have had three.  They didn’t seem to go very well with the pick-me-up.  I assure you—­”