Stephen Ogilvie.

Mark who had been growing bored in the guest-room of Malford Abbey nearly said farewell to it for ever when he received the Rector’s letter.  His old friend and guardian was evidently wounded by his behaviour, and Mark considering what he owed him felt that he ought to abandon his monastic ambitions if by doing so he could repay the Rector some of his kindness.  His hand was on the bell that should summon the guest-brother (when the bell was working and the guest-brother was not) in order to tell him that he had been called away urgently and to ask if he might have the Abbey cart to take him to the station; but at that moment Sir Charles Horner came in and began to chat affably to Mark.

“I’ve been intending to come up and see you for the last three days.  But I’ve been so confoundedly busy.  They wonder what we country gentlemen do with ourselves.  By gad, they ought to try our life for a change.”

Mark supposed that the third person plural referred to the whole body of Radical critics.

“You’re the son of Lidderdale, I hear,” Sir Charles went on without giving Mark time to comment on the hardship of his existence.  “I visited Lima Street twenty-five years ago, before you were born that was.  Your father was a great pioneer.  We owe him a lot.  And you’ve been with Rowley lately?  That confounded bishop.  He’s our bishop, you know.  But he finds it difficult to get at Burrowes except by starving him for priests.  The fellow’s a time-server, a pusher . . .”

Mark began to like Sir Charles; he would have liked anybody who would abuse the Bishop of Silchester.

“So you’re thinking of joining my Order,” Sir Charles went on without giving Mark time to say a word.  “I call it my Order because I set them up here with thirty acres of uncleared copse.  It gives the Tommies something to do when they come over here on furlough from Aldershot.  You’ve never met Burrowes, I hear.”

Mark thought that Sir Charles for a busy man had managed to learn a great deal about an unimportant person like himself.

“Will Father Burrowes be here soon?” Mark inquired.

“’Pon my word, I don’t know.  Nobody knows when he’ll be anywhere.  He’s preaching all over the place.  He begs the deuce of a lot of money, you know.  Aren’t you a friend of Dorward’s?  You were asking Brother Dunstan about him.  His parish isn’t far from here.  About fifteen miles, that’s all.  He’s an amusing fellow, isn’t he?  Has tremendous rows with his squire, Philip Iredale.  A pompous ass whose wife ran away from him a little time ago.  Served him right, Dorward told me in confidence.  You must come and have lunch with me.  There’s only Lady Landells.  I can’t afford to live in the big place.  Huge affair with Doric portico and all that, don’t you know.  It’s let to Lord Middlesborough, the shipping man.  I live at Malford Lodge.  Quite a jolly little place I’ve made of it.  Suits me better than that great gaunt Georgian pile.  You’d better walk down with me this morning and stop to lunch.”