“You’re going to stay and have lunch with us, I hope?” asked the Vicar.

Mark had no idea how to reply.  He was much afraid that if he accepted he should be seeming to have hung about by the Vicarage gate in order to be invited.  On the other hand he did not know how to refuse.  It would be absurd to say that he had to get home, because they would ask him where he lived, and at this hour of the morning he could scarcely pretend that he expected to be back in time for lunch twelve miles and more from where he was.

“Of course he’s going to stay,” said the old lady.

And of course Mark did stay; a delightful lunch it was too, on chairs covered with blue holland in a green shadowed room that smelt of dryness and ancientry.  After lunch Mark sat for a while with the Vicar in his study, which was small and intimate with its two armchairs and bookshelves reaching to the ceiling all round.  He had not yet managed to find out his name, and as it was obviously too late to ask as this stage of their acquaintanceship he supposed that he should have to wait until he left the Vicarage and could ask somebody in the village, of which by the way he also did not know the name.

“Lidderdale,” the Vicar was saying meditatively, “Lidderdale.  I wonder if you were a relative of the famous Lidderdale of St. Wilfred’s?”

Mark flushed with a mixture of self-consciousness and pleasure to hear his father spoken of as famous, and when he explained who he was he flushed still more deeply to hear his father’s work praised with such enthusiasm.

“And do you hope to be a priest yourself?”

“Why, yes I do rather,” said Mark.

“Splendid!  Capital!” cried the Vicar, his kindly blue eye beaming with approval of Mark’s intention.

Presently Mark was talking to him as though he had known him for years.

“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be confirmed here,” the Vicar said.  “No reason at all.  I’ll mention it to the Bishop, and if you like I’ll write to your uncle.  I shall feel justified in interfering on account of your father’s opinions.  We all look upon him as one of the great pioneers of the Movement.  You must come over and lunch with us again next Sunday.  My mother will be delighted to see you.  She’s a dear old thing, isn’t she?  I’m going to hand you over to her now and my youngest sister.  My other sister and I have got Sunday schools to deal with.  Have another cigarette?  No.  Quite right.  You oughtn’t to smoke too much at your age.  Only just fifteen, eh?  By Jove, I suppose you oughtn’t to have smoked at all.  But what rot.  You’d only smoke all the more if it was absolutely forbidden.  Wisdom!  Wisdom!  Wisdom with the young!  You don’t mind being called young?  I’ve known boys who hated the epithet.”

Mark was determined to show his new friend that he did not object to being called young, and he could think of no better way to do it than by asking him his name, thus proving that he did not mind if such a question did make him look ridiculous.