"Of course a great deal of what is done at places like Blackmount is not recognized--yet. To some of the services--to Benediction for instance--the public is not admitted. But the brothers keep every rule--of the strictest observance. I was present last night at the recitation of the Night Office--most touching--most solemn! And--my darling!"--he pressed her hand while his face lit up--"I want to ask you--though I hardly dare. Would you give me--would you give me the greatest joy you could give me, before our marriage? Father Brierly--my old friend--would give us both Communion, on the morning of our wedding--in the little chapel of the Brotherhood, in Red Street, Soho--just us two alone. Would it be too much for you, too tiring?" His voice was tenderness itself. "I would come for you at half past seven--nobody but your mother would know. And then afterward--afterward!--we will go through with the great ceremony--and the crowds--and the bridesmaids. Your mother tells me it's to be Henry the Seventh's chapel--isn't it? But first, we shall have received our Lord, we two alone, into our hearts--to feed upon Him, forever!" There was silence. He had spoken with an imploring gentleness and humility, yet nevertheless with a tender confidence which did not escape the listener. And again a sudden terror seized on Marcia--as though behind the lover, she perceived something priestly, directive, compelling--something that threatened her very self. She drew herself back. "Edward!--ought you--to take things for granted about me--like this?" His face, with its "illuminated," exalted look, scarcely changed. "I don't take anything for granted, dearest. I only put it before you. I talked it over with Brierly--he sent you a message--" "But I don't know him!" cried Marcia. "And I don't know that I want to know him. I'm not sure I think as you do, Edward. You assume that I do--but indeed--indeed--my mind is often in confusion--great confusion--I don't know what to think--about many things." "The Church decides for us, darling--that is the great comfort--the great strength." "But what Church? Everybody chooses his own, it seems to me! And you know that that Roman priest who was at Hoddon Grey the other day thinks you just as much in the wrong as--well, as he'd think me!--_me_, even!" She gave a little tremulous laugh. Then, with a quick movement she sat erect. Her great, dark eyes fixed him eagerly. "And Edward, I've got something so different, so very different to talk to you about! I've been so unhappy--all night, all to-day. I've been pining for you to come--and then afraid what you'd say--" She broke off, her lips parting eagerly, her look searching his. And this time, as she watched him, she saw his features stiffen, as though a suspicion, a foreboding ran through him. She hurried on.