improving the doctrines of the Church until you improve them
right away."

"You are a funny old ass. You really are," gurgled Michael. "And what's
so funny to me is that just when I had a moment of really believing you
dash in with your warnings and nearly spoil it all. By Jove, did you
see that Pale Clouded Yellow?" he shouted suddenly. "By Jove, I haven't
seen one in England for an awful long time. I think I'll begin
collecting butterflies again."

Disputes of doctrine were flung to the wind that sang in their ears as
they mounted their bicycles and coasted swiftly from the bare green
summits of the downs into a deep lane overshadowed by oak-trees. Soon
they came to the Abbey gates, or rather to the place where the Abbey
gates would one day rise in Gothic commemoration of the slow
subscriptions of the faithful. At present the entrance was only marked
by a stony road disappearing abruptly at the behest of a painted
finger-post into verdurous solitudes. After wheeling their bicycles for
about a quarter of a winding mile, the two boys came to a large open
space in the wood and beheld Clere Abbey, a long low wooden building set
as piously near to the overgrown foundations of old Clere Abbey as was
possible.

"What a rotten shame," cried Michael, "that they can't build a decent
Abbey. Never mind, I think it's going to be rather good sport here."

They walked up to the door that seemed too massive for the flimsy pile
to which it gave entrance, and pealed the large bell that hung by the
side. Michael was pleased to observe a grille through which peered the
eyes of the monastic porter, inquisitive of the wayfarers. Then a bolt
shot back, the door opened, and Michael and Chator entered the religious
house.

"I'm Brother Ambrose," said the porter, a stubby man with a flat
pock-marked face whose ugliness was redeemed by an expression of
wonderful innocence. "Dom Cuthbert is expecting you in the Abbot's
Parlour."

Michael and Chator followed Brother Ambrose through a pleasant
book-lined hall into the paternal haunt where the Lord Abbot of Clere
sat writing at a roll-top desk. He rose to greet the boys, who with
reverence perceived him to be a tall dark angular man with glowing eyes
that seemed very deeply set on either side of his great hooked nose. He
could scarcely have been over thirty-five years of age, but he moved
with a languid awkwardness that made him seem older. His voice was very
remote and melodious as he welc