“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?”