“But this is most unending rubbish,” he said.  “I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life.  Terrible.”

The curtain fell on the act at this moment, so that Father Rowley was able to give louder voice to his opinions.

“This is unspeakable bosh,” he repeated.  “I can’t understand anything at all that is going on.  People run on and run off again and make the most idiotic remarks.  I really don’t think I can stand any more of this.”

The clever women rattled their beads and writhed their necks like angry snakes without effect upon the Missioner.

“I don’t think I can stand any more of this,” he repeated.  “I shall have apoplexy if this goes on.”

The clever women hissed angrily about the kind of people that came to theatres nowadays.

“This man Maeterlinck must have escaped from an asylum,” Father Rowley went on.  “I never heard such deplorable nonsense in my life.”

“I shall ask an attendant if we can change our seats,” snapped one of the clever women in front.  “That’s the worst of coming to a Saturday afternoon performance, such extraordinary people come up to town on Saturdays.”

“There you are,” exclaimed Father Rowley loudly, “even that poor woman in front thinks they’re extraordinary.”

“She’s talking about you,” said Mark, “not about the people in the play.”

“My good woman,” said Father Rowley, leaning over and tapping her on the shoulder.  “You don’t think that you really enjoy this rubbish, do you?”

One of her friends who was near the gangway called out to a programme seller: 

“Attendant, attendant, is it possible for my friends and myself to move into another row?  We are being pestered with a running commentary by that stout clergyman behind that lady in green.”

“Don’t disturb yourselves, you foolish geese,” said Father Rowley rising.  “I’m not going to sit through another act.  Come along, Mark, come along, come along.  I am not happy.  I am not happy,” he cried in an absurd falsetto.

Then roaring with laughter at his own imitation of Melisande, he went rolling out of the theatre and sniffed contentedly the air of the Strand.

“I told Lady Pechell we shouldn’t arrive till tea-time, so we’d better go and ride on the top of a bus as far as the city.”

It was an exhilarating ride, although Mark found that Father Rowley occupied much more than half of the seat for two.  About five o’clock they came to the shadowy house in Portman Square in which they were to stay till Monday.  The Missioner was as much at home here as he was at Silchester College or in a railway compartment full of bluejackets.  He knew as well how to greet the old butler as Lady Pechell and her sister Mrs. Mannakay, to all of whom equally his visit was an obvious delight.  Not even Father Rowley’s bulk could dwarf the proportions of that double drawing-room or of that heavy Victorian