There was silence for a minute, while Cromwell drummed his fingers softly on the table.  Then presently Ralph spoke.

“There is this, sir,” he said.  “I might speak to him about my brother Chris who, as I told you, has gone to Lewes at the Maid’s advice, and then see what Master More has to say.”

Cromwell still looked at him.

“Yes,” he said, “that seems reasonable.  And for the rest—­well, I will leave that in your hands.”

They talked a few minutes longer about Sir Thomas More, and Cromwell told the other what a quiet life the ex-Chancellor had led since his resignation of office, of his house at Chelsea, and the like, and of the decision that he had apparently come to not to mix any further in public affairs.

“There is thunder in the air,” he said, “as you know very well, and Master More is no mean weather-prophet.  He mis-liked the matter of the Lady Katharine, and Queen Anne is no friend of his.  I think he is wise to be quiet.”

Ralph knew perfectly well that this tolerant language did not represent Cromwell’s true attitude towards the man of whom they were speaking, but he assented to all that was said, and added a word or two about Sir Thomas More’s learning, and of the pleasant manner in which he himself had been received when he had once had had occasion to see him before.

“He was throwing Horace at me,” said the other, with a touch of bitterness, “the last time that I was there.  I do not know which he loves best, that or his prayers.”

Again Ralph recognised an animus.  Cromwell had suffered somewhat from lack of a classical education.

“But it is a good thing to love the classics and devotion,” he went on presently with a sententious air, “they are solaces in time of trouble.  I have found that myself.”

He glanced up at the other and down again.

“I was caught saying our Lady matins one day,” he said, “when the Cardinal was in trouble.  I remember I was very devout that morning.”

He went on to talk of Wolsey and of his relations with him, and Ralph watched that heavy smooth face become reminiscent and almost sentimental.

“If he had but been wiser;” he said.  “I have noticed again and again the folly of wise men.  There is always clay mixed with gold.  I suppose nothing but the fire that Fryth denied can purge it out; and my lord’s was ambition.”

He wagged his head in solemn reprobation, and Ralph did not know whether to laugh or to look grave.  Then there fell a long silence, and Cromwell again fell to fingering his signet-ring, taking it off his thumb and rolling it on the smooth oak, and at last stood up with a brisker air.

“Welt,” he said, “I have a thousand affairs, and my son Gregory is coming here soon.  Then you will see about that matter.  Remember I wish to know what Master More thinks of her, that—­that I may know what to think.”

* * * * *