The company dispersed, all save Strether, who sat on imperturbably, his eyes on the ceiling. He refused to smoke, and had returned to dull suits and heavy boots, with an occasional concession to society in the shape of a tie or waistcoat. Paul, having seen the last down the stairs, and exchanged a fusillade of sugar with the departing Donaldson, re-entered the room. He shut the door and looked round dispiritedly. A candle was guttering on the bureau; heavy smoke hung in the air; dirty plates and cups littered the table; one picture was awry. He walked to the window and opened it wide, to let in the clear night air. Stars shone serenely aloft and mirrored themselves in the still river. "Another letter from my pater to-day, Gussie," he said at last, turning back to the fire. "He'll not see, or understand." Strether grunted. "It's so odd," went on Paul wearily. "In some ways, he's the gentlest and most lovable of men. He's full of the love of God. He is a hundred times better than I shall ever be. But over this, he's mad, rabid. He seems to picture Father Vassall as a mixture of Torquemada and Judas Iscariot. If only I could get them to meet...." "Going to the joss-house again, Sunday?" Strether had his own picturesque and blasphemous slang. Paul smiled, understanding him. "Why?" he demanded. "I'll come with you. It's more amusing than the 'Ciccu' or chapel. Is there a wander round with candles this week?" "Gussie, you're incorrigible. But, heavens, what a tangle it all is! Does this look like the room of a Christian? Look at it!" Paul made a sweeping gesture. Strether pushed back heavily from the fire. "Beastly cheap cake this evening, anyway." Paul hurled a cushion at him. The two friends went down and out together. "What's worrying you especially?" asked Manning, half an hour later. "Oh, nothing much. At least, that's not right; it is much to me. Manning, it's awful. It's my father's attitude towards Catholicism." "Ah! No time at all for it?" "No. And he doesn't _understand_." "Complain in verse," said Manning, handing him a Swinburne, "and read that. 'E'en the weariest river winds somewhere safe to sea.' Leave the wise to wrangle. Your line is going to be literature, my son." CHAPTER V VACATION The sticks break, the stones crumble, The eternal altars tilt and tumble, Sanctions and tales dislimn like mist About the amazed evangelist. He stands unshook from age to youth Upon one pin-point of the truth. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. (1) Paul lay very still in the heather. An occasional bee buzzed past his face, and, high aloft, a towering hawk regarded him severely, until, satisfied that he was alive, it gave its wings an imperceptible tilt and glided swiftly away. The sun drew out the sweet scents from flowers and bracken, and a small wind brought up, now and again, a whiff of the sea.