“Why, Mr. Torridon, are you in trouble too?  This is the detention-room whither I am sent to consider myself.”

He led Ralph, still holding his hand, to the window-seat, where he leaned again looking eagerly into the garden.

“There go the good boys,” he said, “to and fro in the playground; and here sit I. I suppose I have nothing but the rod to look for.”

Ralph felt a little awkward in the presence of this gaiety; and for a minute or two leaned out beside More, staring mechanically at the figures that passed up and down.  He had expected almost to find him at his prayers, or at least thoughtfully considering himself.

More commented agreeably on the passers-by.

“Dr. Wilson was here a moment ago; but he is off now, with a man on either side.  He too is a naughty fellow like myself, and will not listen to reason.  There is the Vicar of Croydon, good man, coming out of the buttery wiping his mouth.”

Ralph looked down at the priest’s flushed excited face; he was talking with a kind of reckless gaiety to a friend who walked beside him.

“He was sad enough just now,” went on the other, “while he was still obstinate; but his master hath patted him on the head now and given him cake and wine.  He was calling out for a drink just now (which he hath got, I see) either for gladness or for dryness, or else that we might know quod ille notus erat pontifici.”

Dr. Latimer passed presently, his arms on either side flung round a priest’s neck; he too was talking volubly and laughing; and the skirts of his habit wagged behind him.

“He is in high feather,” said More, “and I have no doubt that his conscience is as clear as his eyes.  Come, Mr. Torridon; sit you down.  What have you come for?”

Ralph sat back on the window-seat with his back to the light, and his hat between his knees.

“I came to see you, sir; I have not been to the Commissioners.  I heard you were here.”

“Why, yes,” said More, “here I am.”

“I came to see if I could be of any use to you, Master More; I know a friend’s face is a good councillor sometimes, even though that friend be a fool.”

More patted him softly on the knee.

“No fool,” he said, “far from it.”

He looked at him so oddly that Ralph feared that he suspected him; so he made haste to bring out Beatrice’s letter.

“Mistress Atherton has written me this,” he said.  “I was able to do her a little service—­at least I thought it so then.”

More took the letter and glanced at it.

“A very pretty letter,” he said, “and why do you show it me?”

Ralph looked at him steadily.

“Because I am Master Cromwell’s servant; and you never forget it.”

More burst into a fit of laughter; and then took Ralph kindly by the hand.

“You are either very innocent or very deep,” he said.  “And what have you come to ask me?”