“Who are you?” asked the monk. “You gave me a very funny look at Vespers.” Michael thought this was an extremely unusual way for a monk, even a new monk, to speak, and hesitated a moment before he explained who he was. “I suppose you can help me pick blackberries. I suppose that isn’t against the rules.” “I often help the brothers,” said Michael simply. “But I don’t much care for picking blackberries. Still, I don’t mind helping you.” Michael had an impulse to leave Brother Aloysius, but his self-consciousness prevented him from acting on it, and he kept the picker company in silence while the blackberries dropped lusciously into the basket. “Feel my hand,” said Brother Aloysius suddenly. “It’s as hot as hell.” This time Michael stared in frank astonishment. “Well, you needn’t look so frightened,” said the monk. “You don’t look so very good yourself.” “Well, of course I’m not good,” said Michael. “Only I think it’s funny for a monk to swear. You don’t mind my saying so, do you?” “I don’t mind. I don’t mind anything,” said Brother Aloysius. Tension succeeded this statement, a tension that Michael longed to break; but he could do no more than continue to pick the blackberries. “I suppose you wonder why I’m a monk?” demanded Brother Aloysius. Michael looked at his questioner’s pale face, at the uncomfortable eyes gleaming blue, at the full stained mouth and the long feverish hands dyed with purple juice. “Why are you?” he asked. “Well, I thought I’d try if anything could make me feel good, and then you looked at me in Chapel and set me off again.” “I set you off?” stammered Michael. “Yes, you with your big girl’s eyes, just like a girl I used to live with. Oh, you needn’t look so proper. I expect you’ve often thought about girls. I did at your age. Three months with girls, three months with priests. Girls and priests—that’s my life. When I was tired of women, I became religious, and when I was tired of Church, I took to women. It was a priest told me to come here to see if this would cure me, and now, damn you, you come into Chapel and stare and set me thinking of the Seven Sisters Road on that wet night I saw her last. That’s where she lives, and you look exactly like her. God! you’re the image of her. You might almost be her ghost incarnate.” Brother Aloysius caught hold of Michael’s arm and spoke through clenched teeth. In Michael’s struggle to free himself the basket of blackberries was upset, and they trod the spilt fruit into the grass. Michael broke away finally and gasped angrily: “Look here, I’m not going to stay here. You’re mad.”