In secret Hadrian was kneeling upright in His chapel. "God, I am very worldly. I have enjoyed the triumph." That was the confession which He made, not precisely with sorrow but, with a consuming contempt for Himself. He had done such an ordinary deed: He despised Himself for doing it. He remained in contemplation of His disgusting humanity for some time. By degrees, His mind detached itself from that; and attached itself to the next subject which He had prepared. He went into His workshop: covered the chairs around His armchair with sheets of ms. notes: drew the writing-board on His knees: laid out blank paper: rolled and lighted a cigarette; and began to read and amend His notes. From time to time, He sat back in His chair, gazing out of the window at nothing, working at problems in His brain. Now and then, He scribbled a note, a word, a phrase, a sentence. At length He began to cover sheet after sheet. He wrote for hours and hours together, day after day: burning most of what He wrote, amending more, rewriting much. Anon, an acrid torpor astringed and benumbed His right arm from elbow to finger-tip, announcing the advent of scrivener's palsy. It was evening, about two hours after the Angelus. He put-down His pen; and summoned the first gentleman-of-the-secret-chamber. Sir John sat in front of Him: rolled-up the sleeve; and gave the arm and hand a gentle friction. Hadrian silently watched his busy hands. They were beautiful hands, very white, very slim, very soft,--yes, singularly soft and soothing. Yet they were strong hands, firm and lissome. They did not tire with that continued searching movement, moulding and defining tired muscles and aching sinews, working the fatigue and ache gradually downward to dismissal at the finger-tips. Also the bent head was a good head, small and round, covered with close-cropped hair, black-purple, hyacinthine. And the healthy pallor of the face, the delicately cloven chin, the extremely fine grey eyes, the vigorous form, the exquisitely chaste and intelligent aspect--fancy expecting such an one to roll pills and fill capsules for ever in a chymist's shop! No: he was better as he was. "John," the Pope inquired, "how do you get on with Macleod?" "Oh, very well. I think I like him very much." "Is he comfortable?" "Oh I think so. He seems so at any rate." "Has he got anything to say for himself?" "Oh yes:--now. He was a bit frightened at first: but he's got over that now." "To whom does he talk most freely?" "Oh to me. Not but what he has plenty to say to Iulo too. But he'll tell me anything." "What do you mean by 'anything'?" "Oh everything about himself." "John, look-up into these eyes a moment." The shy grey eyes readily soared into the shy brown eyes. "How much has he told you about himself?" "Oh everything: that's all." "Everything?" A fine flush tinged the fresh ivory face with coral: but the grey eyes did not waver. "Oh yes, everything." "Can he sing?"