He opened the door, and went in with his hand on Gobion's shoulder. The room was panelled in dark green, and warmed by a gas stove. The shelves were filled with books, and books littered the floor and chairs, and even invaded two big writing-tables covered with papers. Over the mantelpiece was hung a print of Andrea Mantegna's Adoration of the Magi. On the wall opposite was a great crucifix, while underneath it was a little shelf covered with worn black velvet, with two silver candlesticks standing on it.
Behind a green curtain stood an iron frame, holding a basin and jug of water.
All the great Anglican priests had been in that room at one time or another.
From it retreats were organized, the innumerable squabbles of the various sisterhoods settled, and arrangements made for the private confession of High Church bishops who required a tonic.
In fact, this business-like little room was in itself the head-quarters of what that amusing print The English Churchman would call "the most Romanizing members of the Ritualistic party."
They sat down. Father Gray said, "You have something to tell me?"
"Yes," Gobion answered sadly, "I am ruined."
"Oh, come, come! What's all this? A boy like you can't be ruined."
"My father has put the last touch to his unkindness, and quite given me up. You know how I have tried to work and lead a decent life; but he won't listen, and I'm going to work at journalism in London and take my chance."
"My poor boy, my poor boy!" And the old priest was silent.