“Strict!” cried Mr. Viner. “Why, they’re so strict that St. Benedict himself, were he to abide again on earth, would seriously consider a revision of his rules as interpreted by Dom Cuthbert Manners, O.S.B., the Lord Abbot of Clere.” “It would be awfully ripping to go there,” said Michael enthusiastically. “Well then,” said Mr. Viner, “it shall be arranged. Meanwhile confer with the voluble and sacerdotal Chator on the subject.” The disappointment of the ungranted certificate, the ineffable tedium of endless school, seaside lodgings and all the weighty ills of Michael’s oppressed soul vanished on that wine-gold July noon when Michael and Chator stood untrammelled by anything more than bicycles and luggage upon the platform of the little station that dreamed its trains away at the foot of the Downs. “By Jove, we’re just like pilgrims,” said Michael, as his gaze followed the aspiring white road which rippled upward to green summits quivering in the haze of summer. The two boys left their luggage to be fetched later by the Abbey marketing-cart, mounted their bicycles, waved a good-bye to the friendly porter beaming among the red roses of the little station and pressed energetically their obstinate pedals. After about half a mile’s ascent they jumped from their machines and walked slowly upwards until the station and clustering hamlet lay breathless below them like a vision drowned deep in a crystal lake. As they went higher a breeze sighed in the sun-parched grasses, and the lines and curves of the road intoxicated them with naked beauty. “I like harebells almost best of any flowers,” said Michael. “Do you?” “They’re awfully like bells,” observed Chator. “I wouldn’t care if they weren’t,” said Michael. “It’s only in London I want things to be like other things.” Chator looked puzzled. “I can’t exactly explain what I mean,” Michael went on. “But they make me want to cry just because they aren’t like anything. You won’t understand what I mean if I explain ever so much. Nobody could. But when I see flowers on a lovely road like this, I get sort of frightened whether God won’t grow tired of bothering about human beings. Because really, you know, Chator, there doesn’t seem much good in our being on the earth at all.” “I think that’s a heresy,” pronounced Chator. “I don’t know which one, but I’ll ask Dom Cuthbert.” “I don’t care if it is heresy. I believe it. Besides, religion must be finding out things for yourself that have been found out already.” “Finding out for yourself,” echoed Chator with a look of alarm. “I say, you’re an absolute Protestant.” “Oh, no I’m not,” contradicted Michael. “I’m a Catholic.” “But you set yourself up above the Church.” “When did I?” demanded Michael. “Just now.” “Because I said that harebells were ripping flowers?” “You said a lot more than that,” objected Chator. “What did I say?” Michael parried.