Now don’t overwhelm me for a minute or two.  I haven’t finished what I want to say.  I wasn’t speaking sarcastically when I said that, and I wasn’t criticizing you.  But you are not Cyril.  By God’s grace you have been kept from the temptations of the flesh.  Yes, I know the subject is distasteful to you.  But you are old enough to understand that your fastidiousness, if it isn’t to be priggish, must be safeguarded by your humility.  I didn’t mean to sandwich a sermon to you between my remarks on Cyril, but your disdainful upper lip compelled that testimony.  Let us leave you and your virtues alone.  Cyril is weak.  He’s the weak pink type that may fall to women or drink or anything in fact where an opportunity is given him of being influenced by a stronger character than his own.  At the moment he’s being influenced by you to go to Confession, and say his rosary, and hear Mass, and enjoy all the other treats that our holy religion gives us.  In addition to that he’s enjoying them like the proverbial stolen fruit.  You were very severe with me when I demurred at hearing his confession without authority from his father; but I don’t like stolen fruit, and I’m not sure even now if I was right in yielding on that point.  I shouldn’t have yielded if I hadn’t felt that Cyril might be hurt in the future by my scruples.  Now look here, Mark, you’ve got to see that I don’t regret my surrender.  If that youth doesn’t get from religion what I hope and pray he will get . . . but let that point alone.  My scruples are my own affair.  Your convictions are your own affair.  But Cyril is our joint affair.  He’s your convert, but he’s my penitent; and Mark, don’t overdecorate your building until you’re sure the foundations are well and truly laid.”

Mark was never given an opportunity of proving the excellence of his methods by the excellence of Cyril’s life, because on the morning after this conversation, which took place one wet Sunday evening in Advent he was sent for by his uncle, who demanded to know the meaning of This.  This was a letter from the Reverend Eustace Pomeroy.

     The Limes,

     38, Cranborne Road,

     Slowbridge.

     December 9.

     Dear Mr. Lidderdale,

My son Cyril will not attend school for the rest of this term.  Yesterday evening, being confined to the house by fever, I went up to his bedroom to verify a reference in a book I had recently lent him to assist his divinity studies under you.  When I took down the book from the shelf I noticed several books hidden away behind, and my curiosity being aroused I examined them, in case they should be works of an unpleasant nature.  To my horror and disgust, I found that they were all works of an extremely Popish character, most of them belonging to a clergyman in this neighbourhood called Ogilvie, whose illegal practices have for several years been a scandal to this diocese.  These I am sending to the Bishop that he may see with