“No—not necessarily. On the other hand,” continued Christian, with daring deliberation, “it is not at all necessary that we should be friends.”
The Jesuit smiled slightly—so slightly that it was the mere ghost of a smile, affecting the lines of his small mouth, but in no way relieving the soft darkness of his eyes.
“Then we are enemies,” he said. “He whose follower I am, said that all who are not with Him are against Him.”
The Englishman's lips closed suddenly, and a peculiar stony look came over his face. There was one subject upon which he had determined not to converse.
“I am instructed,” continued the Provincial, with a sudden change of manner from pleasant to practical, “to ask of you a written promise never to write one word either for or against the Society of Jesus again. In exchange for that promise I am empowered to tender to you the sincere apologies of the Society for the inconvenience to which you may have been put, and to assist you in every way to return home at once.”
A great silence followed this speech. A small clock suspended somewhere in the room ticked monotonously, otherwise there was no sound audible. The two men sat within a yard of each other, each thinking, of the other in his individual way, from his individual point of view, the Jesuit with downcast eyes, his companion watching his immobile features.
At length Christian Vellacott's full and quiet tones broke the spell.
“Of course,” he said simply, “I refuse.”
The Provincial rose from his seat, pushing it back as he did so.
“Then I will not detain you any longer. You are no doubt fatigued. The lay brother waiting outside will show you the room assigned to you, and at whatever time of day or night you may wish to see me, remember that I am at your service.”