to Father Moneypenny for a moment,
and then we can walk back together."

Michael nodded, and presently his friend came back from the sacristy
with Father Moneypenny in cassock and biretta, looking like the
photographs of clergymen that Michael remembered in Nurse's album long
ago.

"So you enjoyed the Evensong?" enquired the priest. "Capital! You must
come to Mass next Sunday. There will be a procession. By the way, Prout,
perhaps your young friend would help us. We shall want extra
torch-boys."

Mr. Prout agreed, and Michael, although he wondered what his mother
would say, was greatly excited by the idea. They were standing now by
the door of the church and as it opened a gust of wind burst in and
whistled round the interior. Father Moneypenny shivered.

"What a night. The end of summer, I'm afraid."

He closed the door, and Michael and Mr. Prout forced their way through
the gale over the wet gravel of the churchyard. The pine trees and the
heather made a melancholy concert, and they were glad to reach the blown
lamplight of the streets.

"Will you come round to my place?" Mr. Prout asked.

"Well, I ought to go back. My mater will be anxious," said Michael.

Mr. Prout thereupon invited him to come round to-morrow afternoon.

"I shall be back from the Bank about five. Good night. You've got my
card? Bernard Prout, Esdraelon, Saxton Road. Good night. Pleased to have
met you."

Mrs. Fane was surprized to hear of Michael's visit to St. Bartholomew's.

"You're getting so secretive, dearest boy. I'd no idea you were becoming
interested in religion."

"Well, it is interesting," said Michael.

"Of course. I know it must be. So many people think of nothing else. And
do you really want to march in the procession?"

"Yes, but don't you and Stella come," Michael said.

"Oh, I must, Michael. I'd love to see you in all those pretty clothes."

"Well, I _can_ go round and see this chap Prout, can't I?" Michael
asked.

"I suppose so," Mrs. Fane replied. "Of course, I don't know anything
about him. Is he a gentleman?"

"Of course he's a gentleman," affirmed Michael warmly. "Besides I don't
see it matters a bit whether he's a gentleman or not."

"No, of course it doesn't really, as it all has to do with religion,"
Mrs. Fane agreed. "Nothing is so mixed as religious society."

Saxton Road possessed no characteristic to distinguish it from many
similar roads in Bournemouth. A few hydrangeas debated in sheltered
c