Paul passed in. He had the odd thought that it was all part of a dream. The passage was stone-flagged and the hall beautifully bare. An oak bench ran along one wall. There were a few carvings and weapons and curios about. A sombre print or two hung opposite: St. Francis Xavier in a high biretta, and an Entombment. The figure in black putting up the latch by the light of the lantern was mediæval and fantastic. Yet it was all real, and it was real that he, Paul Kestern, was there at last, in the house of a Catholic priest. "Come in," said Father Vassall again. "You must be cold. Come and get warm before supper. There's a t-t-topping fire in the p-parlour." He led the way, bustling forward with a swish of cassock, welcoming, kind. Paul entered the long low library, hung with panels of green cloth, and took in its satisfactory furnishing at a glance. The room rested quietly, waiting for him. With a swift mental comparison, he saw himself arriving at Claxted instead. Then he, too, laughed eagerly, and moved forward to the big open Tudor fireplace. A log burned there brightly, the "royal flames" leaping in the iron grate behind a high screen. A deep green-brocaded arm-chair stood back in an ingle, a litter of papers on the rug near by, a shaded candle in a tall twisted candlestick throwing a pool of light down upon them. Above the fireplace stood unfamiliar incongruous objects: a white skull-cap that had been Pius IX.'s, in a glass-fronted box, and a black Madonna hung with beads. There was an unframed water-colour too, and a pencil sketch. From the rug, he turned to survey the room. Its bare wood floor reached out into the shadows, save where a goat-skin caught the light. Bookcases with white shelves stood out from the walls. On a stand in a window recess were tall lilies growing in a pot. The marble head of Bernard of Clairvaux, wrapt in contemplation, stood on a bracket; he could just see the aquiline nose, and downcast eyes. There was a solid narrow oak table with a chest below. In a corner there was a hanging lamp, burning dimly, so that one could see to move over there. It glinted on a grand piano. A comfortable chintz-covered chair or two stood about. His host pulled forward an arm-chair whose elbows ended in carved griffin-heads. "Sit down," he reiterated, "and toast yourself. It is jolly to see you here. How's C-Cambridge?" Paul drew a deep breath and seated himself. "Fine," he said. "I suppose it exists, by the way," he went on, with a laugh. "We went up four in the Lents. I say, this is just heavenly." "Good man. Have a cigarette. Supper won't be long." "Are you very busy, Father? We miss you awfully at Cambridge. When's the next book to appear?"