In the Abbey—­where my Uncle Gervase was forced to withdraw behind a pillar and rub Billy Priske’s neck, which by this time had a crick in it—­my father’s voice, as he moved from tomb to tomb, deepened to a regal solemnity.  He repeated Beaumont’s great lines—­

     “Mortality, behold and fear! 
      What a change of flesh is here!”

laying a hand on my shoulder the while; and in the action I understood that this and all his previous discourse was addressed to me with a purpose, and that somehow our visit to London had to do with that purpose.

     “Here they lie had realms and lands
      Who now want strength to stir their hands;
      Where from their pulpits seal’d with dust
      They preach ‘In greatness is no trust’ . . . 
      Here are sands, ignoble things,
      Dropt from the ruin’d sides of kings. . . .”

I must have fallen a-wondering while he quoted in a low sonorous voice, like a last echo of the great organ, rolling among the arches; for as it ceased I came to myself with a start and found his eyes searching me; also his hold on my shoulder had stiffened, and he held me from him at arm’s length.

“And yet,” said he, as if to himself, “this dust is the strongest man can build with; and we must build in our generation—­quickly, trusting in the young firm flesh; yes, quickly—­and trusting—­though we know what its end must be.”

These last words he muttered, and afterwards seemed to fall into a meditation, which lasted until we found ourselves outside the Abbey and in the light again.

From Westminster we took boat to Blackfriars, and, landing there, walked up through the crowded traffic to a gateway opening into Clement’s Inn.  I did not know its name at the time, nor did I regard the place as we entered, being yet fascinated with the sight of Temple Bar and of the heads of four traitors above it on poles, blackening in the sun; but within the courtyard we turned to the right and mounted a staircase to the head of the second flight and to a closed door on which my father knocked.  A clerk opened, and presently we passed through an office into a well-sized room where, from amid a pile of books, a grave little man rose, reached for his wig, and, having adjusted it, bowed to us.

“Good morning!  Good morning, gentlemen!  Ah—­er—­Sir John Constantine, I believe?”

My father bowed.  “At your service, Mr. Knox.  You received my letter, then?  Let me present my brother-in-law and man of affairs, Mr. Gervase Arundel, who will discuss with you the main part of our business; also my son here, about whom I wrote to you.”

“Eh?  Eh?” Mr. Knox, after bowing to my uncle, put on his spectacles, took them off, wiped them, put them on again, and regarded me benevolently.  “Eh? so this is the boy—­h’m—­Jasper, I believe?”

“Prosper,” my father corrected.

“Ah, to be sure—­Prosper—­and I hope he will, I’m sure.”  Mr. Knox chuckled at his mild little witticism and twinkled at me jocosely.  “Your letter, Sir John?  Yes, to be sure, I received it.  What you propose is practicable, though irregular.”