Mr. Prout agreed, and Michael, although he wondered what his mother would say, was greatly excited by the idea. They were standing now by the door of the church and as it opened a gust of wind burst in and whistled round the interior. Father Moneypenny shivered. “What a night. The end of summer, I’m afraid.” He closed the door, and Michael and Mr. Prout forced their way through the gale over the wet gravel of the churchyard. The pine trees and the heather made a melancholy concert, and they were glad to reach the blown lamplight of the streets. “Will you come round to my place?” Mr. Prout asked. “Well, I ought to go back. My mater will be anxious,” said Michael. Mr. Prout thereupon invited him to come round to-morrow afternoon. “I shall be back from the Bank about five. Good night. You’ve got my card? Bernard Prout, Esdraelon, Saxton Road. Good night. Pleased to have met you.” Mrs. Fane was surprized to hear of Michael’s visit to St. Bartholomew’s. “You’re getting so secretive, dearest boy. I’d no idea you were becoming interested in religion.” “Well, it is interesting,” said Michael. “Of course. I know it must be. So many people think of nothing else. And do you really want to march in the procession?” “Yes, but don’t you and Stella come,” Michael said. “Oh, I must, Michael. I’d love to see you in all those pretty clothes.” “Well, I _can_ go round and see this chap Prout, can’t I?” Michael asked. “I suppose so,” Mrs. Fane replied. “Of course, I don’t know anything about him. Is he a gentleman?” “Of course he’s a gentleman,” affirmed Michael warmly. “Besides I don’t see it matters a bit whether he’s a gentleman or not.” “No, of course it doesn’t really, as it all has to do with religion,” Mrs. Fane agreed. “Nothing is so mixed as religious society.” Saxton Road possessed no characteristic to distinguish it from many similar roads in Bournemouth. A few hydrangeas debated in sheltered corners whether they should be pink or blue, and the number of each house was subordinate to its title. The gate of Esdraelon clicked behind Michael’s entrance just as the gate of Homeview or Ardagh or Glenside would have clicked. By the bay-window of the ground floor was planted a young passion-flower whose nursery label lisped against the brick-work, and whose tendrils were flattened beneath wads of nail-pierced flannel. Michael was directed upstairs to Mr. Prout’s sitting-room on the first floor, where the owner was arranging the tea-cups. “I’m so glad you were able to come,” he said. Michael looked round the room with interest, and while the tea-cake slowly cooled Mr. Prout discussed with enthusiasm his possessions.