her name with an “e,” which as she pointed out was the original spelling.  She had already gratified her romantic fancy by calling her son Drogo.  Harrow and Cambridge completed what Mrs. Mortemer began, and if Drogo had not developed what his mother spoke of as a “mania for religion” there is no reason to suppose that he would not one day have been a cabinet minister.  However, as it was, Mrs. Mortemer died cherishing with her last breath a profound conviction that her son would soon be a bishop.  That he was not likely to become a bishop was due to the fact that with all his worldliness, with all his wealth, with all his love of wire-pulling, with all his respect for rank he held definite opinions and was not afraid to belong to a minority unpopular in high places.  He had too a simple piety that made his church a power in spite of fashionable weddings and exorbitant pew rents.

“The sort of thing we’re trying to do here in a small way,” he said to Father Rowley at lunch, “is what the Jesuits are doing at Farm Street.  My two assistant priests are both rather brilliant young people, and I’m always on the look out to get more young men of the right type.”

“You’d better offer Lidderdale a title when he’s ready to be ordained.”

“Why, of course I will,” said the dapper little vicar with a courteous smile for Mark.  “Do take some more claret, Father Rowley.  It’s rather a specialty of ours here.  We have a friend in Bordeaux who buys for us.”

It was typical of Mr. Mortemer to use the plural.

“There you are, Mark Anthony.  I’ve secured you a title.”

“Mr. Mortemer is only being polite,” said Mark.

“No, no, my dear boy, on the contrary I meant absolutely what I said.”

He seemed worried by Mark’s distrust of his sincerity, and for the rest of lunch he laid himself out to entertain his less important guest, talking with a slight excess of charm about the lack of vitality, loss of influence, and oriental barbarism of the Orthodox Church.

“Enfin, Asiatic religion,” he said.  “Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Lidderdale?  And our Philorthodox brethren who would like to bring about reunion with such a Church . . . the result would be dreadful . . .  Eurasian . . . yes, I must confess that sometimes I sympathize with the behaviour of the Venetians in the Fourth Crusade.”

Father Rowley looked at his watch and announced that it was time to start for Poplar, where he was to address a large gathering of Socialists in the Town Hall.  Mr. Mortemer made a moue.

“Nevertheless I’m bound to admit that you have a strong case.  Perhaps I’m like the young man with large possessions,” he burst out with a sudden intense gravity.  “Perhaps after all the St. Cyprian’s religion isn’t Christianity at all.  Just Catholicism.  Nothing else.”

“You’d better come down to Poplar with Mark and me,” Father Rowley suggested.

But Mr. Mortemer shook his head with a smile.