Meanwhile, he had of course heard nothing of his brother’s presence in London, and it was with something of a shock that on the next afternoon he heard the news from Mr. Morris that Mr. Christopher was below and waiting for him in the parlour.

As he went down he wondered what Chris was doing in London, and what he himself could say to him.  He was expecting Beatrice, too, to call upon him presently with her maid to give him a message and a bundle of letters which he had promised to convey to Sir Thomas More.  But he was determined to be kind to his brother.

Chris was standing in his black monk’s habit on the other side of the walnut table, beside the fire-place, and made no movement as Ralph came forward smiling and composed.  His face was thinner than his brother remembered it, clean-shaven now, with hollows in the checks, and his eyes were strangely light.

“Why, Chris!” said Ralph, and stopped, astonished at the other’s motionlessness.

Then Chris came round the table with a couple of swift steps, his hands raised a little from the wide, drooping sleeves.

“Ah! brother,” he said, “I have come to bring you away:  this is a wicked place.”

Ralph was so amazed that he fell back a step.

“Are you mad?” he said coldly enough, but he felt a twitch of superstitious fear at his heart.

Chris seized the rich silk sleeve in both his hands, and Ralph felt them trembling and nervous.

“You must come away,” he said, “for Jesu’s sake, brother!  You must not lose your soul.”

Ralph felt the old contempt surge up and drown his fear.  The familiarity of his brother’s presence weighed down the religious suggestion of his habit and office.  This is what he had feared and almost expected;—­that the cloister would make a fanatic of this fantastic brother of his.

He glanced round at the door that he had left open, but the house was silent.  Then he turned again.

“Sit down, Chris,” he said, with a strong effort at self-command, and he pulled his sleeve away, went back and shut the door, and then came forward past where his brother was standing, to the chair that stood with its back to the window.

“You must not be fond and wild,” he said decidedly.  “Sit down, Chris.”

The monk came past him to the other side of the hearth, and faced him again, but did not sit down.  He remained standing by the fire-place, looking down at Ralph, who was in his chair with crossed legs.

“What is this folly?” said Ralph again.

Chris stared down at him a moment in silence.

“Why, why—­” he began, and ceased.

Ralph felt himself the master of the situation, and determined to be paternal.

“My dear lad,” he said, “you have dreamed yourself mad at Lewes.  When did you come to London?”

“Yesterday,” said Chris, still with that strange stare.

“Why, then—­” began Ralph.