The night before Michael was to leave the monastery, a great gale blew from the south-west and kept him wide awake hour after hour until the bell for Matins. He felt that on this his last night it would be in order for him to attend the Office. So he dressed quickly and hurried through the wind-swept corridor into the Chapel. Here, in a severity of long droning psalms, he tried to purge his mind of all it had acquired from the shamelessness of Brother Aloysius. He was so far successful that he could look Dom Cuthbert fearlessly in the face when he bade him good-bye next day, and as he coasted over the downs through the calm September sunlight, he to himself seemed like the country washed by the serene radiance of the tempest’s aftermath. Chapter VIII: _Mirrors_ M ICHAEL somehow felt shy when he heard his mother’s voice telling him to come into her room. He had run upstairs and knocked excitedly at her door before the shyness overwhelmed him, but it was too late not to enter, and he sat down to give her the account of his holidays. Rather dull it seemed, and robbed of all vitality by the barrier which both his mother and he hastened to erect between themselves. “Well, dear, did you enjoy yourself at this Monastery?” “Oh, rather.” “Is the—what do you call him?—the head monk a nice man?” “Oh, yes, awfully decent.” “And your friend Chator, did he enjoy himself?” “Oh, rather. Only he had to go before me. Did you enjoy yourself abroad, mother?” “Very much, dear, thank you. We had lovely weather all the time.” “We had awfully ripping weather too.” “Have you got everything ready for school in the morning?” “There’s nothing much to get. I suppose I’ll go into Cray’s—the Upper Fifth. Do you want me now, mother?” “No, dear, I have one or two letters to write.” “I think I’ll go round and see if Chator’s home yet. You don’t mind?” “Don’t be late for dinner.” “Oh, no, rather not.” Going downstairs from his mother’s room, Michael had half an impulse to turn back and confide in her the real account of his holidays. But on reflection he protested to himself that his mother looked upon him as immaculate, and he felt unwilling to disturb by such a revolutionary step the approved tranquillities of maternal ignorance.