“Lazy brute!” murmured Father Marny, in his affectionate, clear voice, “can’t even fetch the letters.”  And a moment later he went for them himself, and having flung a dozen letters over his companion’s shoulder, went back to the accounts.

Ten minutes later he looked up, and gave a little start.  He was quick to see any change in Mark, and he did not like his attitude.  He did not know till that moment how anxious he had been as to the possibility of some change.  He moved quickly forward and stood in front of the deep chair in which Mark was sitting, leaning forward with his eyes fixed on the carpet.

“Bad news?” he asked abruptly.

“Bad enough,” said Mark, and, very slowly raising his head, he gave a smile that was the worst part of all the look on his face.  Jack Marny put one hand on his shoulder, and a woman’s touch could not have been lighter.

“It’s not——?” he said, and then stopped.

“Yes, it is,” Mark answered.  “I am to be a domestic chaplain to that pious old ass, Lord Lofton.  It seems I need quiet for study—­quiet to rot in!  My God! is that how I am to work for souls?”

It was, perhaps, better for Mark that Jack Marny broke down completely at the news, for, by the time he had been forced into telling his friend that it was preposterous to suppose that any man was necessary for God’s work, and that if they had faith at all they must believe that God allowed this to happen, light began to dawn in his own mind.  But he was almost frightened at the passionate resentment of the Kelt; he saw there was serious danger of some outbreak on his part against the authorities.

“They won’t catch me staying here after you are gone!”

“Much good that would do me,” said Mark.  “I should get all the blame.”

“They must learn that we are not slaves!” thundered the curate, his fair face absolutely black with wrath.

“We are God’s slaves,” said Mark, in a low voice, and then there was silence between them for the space of half an hour.

The door opened and a shrill voice cried out, “There’s Tom Turner at the door asking for Father Mark,” and the door was banged to again.

Tom Turner was the very flower of Mark’s converts to a good life.

Father Marny groaned at the name.

“Let me see him,” he said.  “Go out and get a walk.”

“I’d rather see him; I don’t know how much oftener——­”

The sentence was not finished.  He had left the room in two strides.

CHAPTER XXXVI

MENE THEKEL PHARES