His becoming a Catholic had been an amazing shock to Jack, who had always supposed that Frank, like himself, took the ordinary sensible English view of religion.  To be a professed unbeliever was bad form—­it was like being a Little Englander or a Radical; to be pious was equally bad form—­it resembled a violent devotion to the Union Jack.  No; religion to Jack (and he had always hitherto supposed, to Frank) was a department of life in which one did not express any particular views:  one did not say one’s prayers; one attended chapel at the proper times; if one was musical, one occasionally went to King’s on Sunday afternoon; in the country one went to church on Sunday morning as one went to the stables in the afternoon, and that was about all.

Frank had been, too, so extremely secretive about the whole thing.  He had marched into Jack’s rooms in Jesus Lane one morning nearly a fortnight ago.

“Come to mass at the Catholic Church,” he said.

“Why, the—­” began Jack.

“I’ve got to go.  I’m a Catholic.”

“What!”

“I became one last week.”

Jack had stared at him, suddenly convinced that someone was mad.  When he had verified that it was really a fact; that Frank had placed himself under instruction three months before, and had made his confession—­(his confession!)—­on Friday, and had been conditionally baptized; when he had certified himself of all these things, and had begun to find coherent language once more, he had demanded why Frank had done this.

“Because it’s the true religion,” said Frank.  “Are you coming to mass or are you not?”

Jack had gone then, and had come away more bewildered than ever as to what it was all about.  He had attempted to make a few inquiries, but Frank had waved his hands at him, and repeated that obviously the Catholic religion was the true one, and that he couldn’t be bothered.  And now here they were at tea in Jesus Lane for the last time.

* * * * *

Of course, there was a little suppressed excitement about Frank.  He drank three cups of tea and took the last (and the under) piece of buttered bun without apologies, and he talked a good deal, rather fast.  It seemed that he had really no particular plans as to what he was going to do after he had walked out of Cambridge with his carpet-bag early next morning.  He just meant, he said, to go along and see what happened.  He had had a belt made, which pleased him exceedingly, into which his money could be put (it lay on the table between them during tea), and he proposed, naturally, to spend as little of that money as possible....  No; he would not take one penny piece from Jack; it would be simply scandalous if he—­a public-school boy and an University man—­couldn’t keep body and soul together by his own labor.  There would be hay-making presently, he supposed, and fruit-picking, and small jobs on farms.  He would just go along and see what happened.  Besides there were always casual wards, weren’t there? if the worst came to the worst; and he’d meet other men, he supposed, who’d put him in the way of things.  Oh! he’d get on all right.