orners whether they should be pink or blue, and the number of each
house was subordinate to its title. The gate of Esdraelon clicked behind
Michael's entrance just as the gate of Homeview or Ardagh or Glenside
would have clicked. By the bay-window of the ground floor was planted a
young passion-flower whose nursery label lisped against the brick-work,
and whose tendrils were flattened beneath wads of nail-pierced flannel.
Michael was directed upstairs to Mr. Prout's sitting-room on the first
floor, where the owner was arranging the tea-cups.

"I'm so glad you were able to come," he said.

Michael looked round the room with interest, and while the tea-cake
slowly cooled Mr. Prout discussed with enthusiasm his possessions.

"That's St. Bernardine of Sienna," he explained, pointing to a coloured
statuette. "My patron, you know. Curious I should have been born on his
day and be christened Bernard. I thought of changing my name to
Bernardine, but it's so difficult at a Bank. Of course, I have a cult
for St. Bernard too, but I never really can forgive him for opposing the
Immaculate Conception. Father Moneypenny and I have great arguments on
that point. I'm afraid he's a _little_ bit wobbly. But absolutely sound
on the Assumption. Oh, absolutely, I'm glad to say. In fact, I don't
mind telling you that next year we intend to keep it as a Double of the
First Class with Octave _which_, of course, it _is_. This rosary is made
of olive-wood from the Garden of Gethsemane and I'm very anxious to get
it blessed by the Pope. Some friends of mine are going to Rome next
Easter with a Polytechnic tour, so I _may_ be able to manage it. But
it's difficult. The Cardinals--you know," said Mr. Prout vaguely.
"They're inclined to be bitter against English Catholics. Of course,
Vaughan made the mistake of his life in getting the Pope to pronounce
against English Orders. I know a Roman priest told me he considered it a
fatal move. However--you're waiting for your tea?"

Michael ate Mr. Prout's bread-and-butter and drank his tea, while the
host hopped from trinket to trinket.

"This is a sacred amulet which belonged to one of the Macdonalds who
fought at Prestonpans. I suppose you're a Jacobite? Of course, I belong
to all the Legitimist Societies--the White Rose, the White Cockade, the
White Carnation. Everyone. I wish I were a Scotchman, although my
grandmother was a Miss Macmillan, so I've got Scotch blood. You _are_ a
Jacobite, aren't you?