In the morning he breakfasted with Manning. His friend was enthusiastic over the possibility of Fordham, and utterly and wholly delighted. He himself, having spent a fourth year in research work, was off to Central Africa in September to shoot big game and incidentally study tropical medicine, but he would see Paul at the Manor before he went. He was an odd mixture, and Paul rather envied him. Money, or the lack of it, did not hamper him; in his own subject, he was distinctly brilliant; yet his science was a plaything in his life. He did not sit lightly to the serious subjects that worried Paul, but he rode them on the curb with easy mastery. Paul was increasingly aware that he wanted, nowadays, to talk to Manning. Thus, then, that the second post and not the first brought him his letter, mattered not a little--perhaps. "MY DEAR" (Father Vassall wrote), "I'll be quite honest; I don't like it. It seems to me that you are going down to Fordham as Jonah took ship for Tarshish. God grant there's a storm--and a whale! I shall pray for it anyway, so look out. Of course, after your visit here, I've no right to judge, for I believe you did not play tricks. But it beats me.... Honestly, I'd rather, far rather, hear that you were going to be a PROTESTANT CLERGYMAN! "However, I'm here if you want me." Paul, Mr. and Mrs. Kestern, Mr. Ernest and Madeline caught the 11.20 to town. They were all a bit subdued, especially Madeline. CHAPTER IX FORDHAM Foot after foot ye go back and travail and make yourselves mad; Blind feet that feel for the track where highway is none to be had. Therefore the God that ye make you is grievous, and gives not aid, Because it is but for your sake that the God of your making is made. * * * * * Cry out, for his kingdom is shaken; cry out, for the people blaspheme; Cry aloud till his godhead awaken; what doth he to sleep and to dream? Is not this the great God of your sires, that with souls and with bodies was fed, And the world was on flame with his fires? O fools, he was God, and is dead. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE: _Hymn of Man_. Le silence éternel de ces espaces infinis m'effraie.--PASCAL: _Pensées_. And that inverted Bowl we call the Sky, Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die, Lift not thy hands to It for help--for It Rolls impotently on as Thou or I. OMAR KHAYYÁM. (1)