His large dull face, clean shaven like a priest’s, lighted up briskly as he saw Ralph standing there, and he thrust his arm pleasantly through his agent’s.

“Come home to supper,” he said, and the two wheeled round and went out and into the carriage.  Mr. Morris handed the bag through the window to his master, and stood bare-headed as the carriage moved off over the newly laid road.

It would have been a very surprising sight to Sir James Torridon to see his impassive son’s attitude towards Cromwell.  He was deferential, eager to please, nervous of rebuke, and almost servile, for he had found his hero in that tremendous personality.  He pulled out his papers now, shook them out briskly, and was soon explaining, marking and erasing.  Cromwell leaned back in his corner and listened, putting in a word of comment now and again, or dotting down a note on the back of a letter, and watching Ralph with a pleasant, oblique look, for he liked to see his people alert and busy.  But he knew very well what his demeanour was like at other times, and had at first indeed been drawn to the young man by his surprising insolence of manner and impressive observant silences.

“That is very well, Mr. Torridon,” he said.  “I will see to the license.  Put them all away.”

Ralph obeyed, and then sat back too, silent indeed, but with a kind of side-long readiness for the next subject; but Cromwell spoke no more of business for the present, only uttering short sentences about current affairs, and telling his friend the news.

“Frith has been burned,” he said.  “Perhaps you knew it.  He was obstinate to the end, my Lord Bishop reported.  He threw Saint Chrysostom and Saint Augustine back into their teeth.  He gave great occasion to the funny fellows.  There was one who said that since Frith would have no purgatory, he was sent there by my Lord to find out for himself whether there be such a place or not.  There was a word more about his manner of going there, ‘Frith frieth,’ but ’twas not good.  Those funny fellows over-reach themselves.  Hewet went with him to Smithfield and hell.”

Ralph smiled, and asked how they took it.

“Oh, very well.  A priest bade the folk pray no more for Frith than for a dog, but Frith smiled on him and begged the Lord to forgive him his unkind words.”

He was going on to tell him a little more about the talk of the Court, when the carriage drove up to the house in Throgmorton Street, near Austin Friars, which Cromwell had lately built for himself.

“My wife and children are at Hackney,” he said as he stepped out.  “We shall sup alone.”

It was a great house, built out of an older one, superbly furnished with Italian things, and had a large garden at the back on to which looked the windows of the hall.  Supper was brought up almost immediately—­a couple of woodcocks and a salad—­and the two sat down, with a pair of servants in blue and silver to wait on them.  Cromwell spoke no more word of business until the bottle of wine had been set on the table, and the servants were gone.  And then he began again, immediately.