two remained at their work in Malta.  Father Burrowes was even more successful as a preacher than he hoped; ascribing the steady flow of offertories to Divine favour, he instituted during the next four years, priories at Aldershot and Sandgate.  He began to feel the need of a Mother House, having now more than enough candidates for the Order of Saint George, where the novices could be suitably trained to meet the stress of active mission work.  One of his moving appeals for this object was heard by Sir Charles Horner who, for reasons he had already explained to Mark and because underneath all his ecclesiasticism there did exist a genuine desire for the glory of God, had presented the land at Malford to the Order.  Father Burrowes preached harder than ever, addressed drawing-room meetings, and started a monthly magazine called The Dragon to raise the necessary money to build a mighty abbey.  Meanwhile, he had to be contented with those three tin tabernacles.  Brother George, who had remained all these years in Malta, suggested that it was time for somebody else to take his place out there, and the Father Superior, although somewhat unwillingly, had agreed to his coming to Malford.  Not having heard of anybody whom at the moment he considered suitable to take charge of what was now a distant outpost of the Order, he told Brother George to close the house.  It was at this stage in the history of the Order that Mark presented himself as a candidate for admission.

Father Burrowes arrived unexpectedly two days after the lunch at Malford Lodge; and presently Brother Dunstan came to tell Mark that the Reverend Father would see him in the Abbott’s Parlour immediately after Nones.  Mark thought that Sir Charles might have given a mediaeval lining to this room at least, which with its roll-top desk looked like the office of the clerk of the works.

“So you want to be a monk?” said Father Burrowes contemptuously.  “Want to dress up in a beautiful white habit, eh?”

“I really don’t mind what I wear,” said Mark, trying not to appear ruffled by the imputation of wrong motives.  “But I do want to be a monk, yes.”

“You can’t come here to play at it,” said the Superior, looking keenly at Mark from his bright blue eyes and lighting up a large pipe.

“Curiously enough,” said Mark, who had forgotten the Benedictine injunction to discourage newcomers that seek to enter a community, “I wrote to my guardian a few days ago that my impression of Malford Abbey was rather that it was playing at being monks.”

The Superior flushed to a vivid red.  He was a burly man of fair complexion, inclined to plumpness, and with a large mobile mouth eloquent and sensual.  His hands were definitely fat, the backs of them covered with golden hairs and freckles.

“So you’re a critical young gentleman, are you?  I suppose we’re not Catholic enough for you.  Well,” he snapped, “I’m afraid you won’t suit us.  We don’t want you.  Sorry.”