practical manhood demanded. Hence his impatience of supervision. ‘No, my friend,’ he said one morning, turning on the faithful watch-dog who was about to follow him out: ‘I need no escort, by your leave.’ ‘No question of need, Sir, but of sociability,’ answered Clerivault sweetly. ‘You may favour your own company more than I do mine.’ ‘I do for the nonce. I would be alone, my good fellow. You hear?’ ‘With difficulty, Sir. I am dull o’ the lug this morning. I shall hear better in the fresh air.’ ‘Clerivault, I would not have us quarrel.’ ‘God forbid!’ ‘I say God forbid.’ ‘May I not follow, even at a distance?’ ‘To stick in my thoughts like a pursuing conscience! No, stay where you are. I shall be back anon.’ The man looked after him wistfully as he disappeared; but Brion’s mood had been so peremptory that he dared not disobey. He only groaned and shook his head, as he turned back into the yard from which the other had gone forth. As he did so, he was passed by a stranger who had risen hastily from drinking a mug of ale at one of the tables hard by, and who also vanished through the archway leading into the street. Brion, loitering eastward, was aware of some excitement in the town. A press of people, all moving his way, gathered volume as he advanced. He asked the reason of a neighbour, and was told that Her Majesty was to go that morning in state to Paul’s Cross to hear a notable Reformer preach. He pushed on, and somewhere beyond the Palace gained a position in the crowd whence, obscurely situated himself, he could see the procession pass. He had no desire to risk a second meeting at close quarters with the man from whom, of all souls in the teeming city, he felt the most alienated and apart.