This was very unsatisfactory, and Ralph strove to remedy it.

“And in the matter of the King’s death, Mr. More?” he said.

Again Sir Thomas stopped in his walk.

“Do you know, Mr. Torridon, I think we may leave that alone,” he said a little abruptly.  And Ralph sucked in his lip and bit it sharply at the consciousness of his own folly.

“I hope your brother will be very happy,” went on the other after a moment, “and I am sure he will be, if his call is from God, as I think likely.  I was with the Carthusians myself, you know, for four years, and sometimes I think I should have stayed there.  It is a blessed life.  I do not envy many folks, but I do those.  To live in the daily companionship of our blessed Lord and of his saints as those do, and to know His secrets—­secreta Domini—­even the secrets of His Passion and its ineffable joys of pain—­that is a very fortunate lot, Mr. Torridon.  I sometimes think that as it was with Christ’s natural body so it is with His mystical body:  there be some members, His hands and feet and side, through which the nails are thrust, though indeed there is not one whole spot in His body—­inglorious erit inter viros aspectus ejus—­nos putavimus eum quasi leprosum—­but those parts of His body that are especially pained are at once more honourable and more happy than those that are not.  And the monks are those happy members.”

He was speaking very solemnly, his voice a little tremulous, and his kindly eyes were cast down, and Ralph watched him sidelong with a little awe and pity mingled.  He seemed so natural too, that Ralph thought that he must have over-rated his own indiscretion.

A shadow fell across the door into the garden as they came near it, and one of the girls appeared in the opening.

“Why, Meg,” cried her father, “what is it, my darling?”

“Beatrice has come, sir,” said the girl.  “I thought you would wish to know.”

More put out his arm and laid it round his daughter’s waist as she turned with him.

“Come, Mr. Torridon,” he said, “if you have no more to say, let us go and see Beatrice.”

There was a group on the lawn under one of the lime trees, two or three girls and Mr. Roper, who all rose to their feet as the three came up.  More immediately sat down on the grass, putting his feet delicately together before him.

“Will, fetch this gentleman a chair.  It is not fit for Master Cromwell’s friend to sit on the grass like you and me.”

Ralph threw himself down on the lawn instantly, entreating Mr. Roper not to move.

“Well, well,” said Sir Thomas, “let be.  Sit down too, Will, et cubito remanete presso.  Mr. Torridon understands that, I know, even if Master Cromwell’s friend does not.  Why, tillie-vallie, as Mrs. More says, I have not said a word to Beatrice.  Beatrice, this is Mr. Ralph Torridon, and this, Mr. Torridon, is Beatrice.  Her other name is Atherton, but to me she is a feminine benediction, and nought else.”