Father Cyprian and Claude Rutherford left the house together.
"May I walk with you as far as your lodgings?" Claude asked.
"By all means, and come in with me, if you can. It is early yet, and I have long wanted a talk with you."
"Serious?"
"Yes, even serious. When one cares as much for a young man as I do for you, there is always room for seriousness. You look alarmed, but there is no occasion. I don't preach long sermons, especially not to young men."
They walked to the end of the street in silence. They were old friends; and though Claude was the most lax among Papists, Cyprian Hammond had never lost hope of bringing him back to the fold. He was emotional and imaginative, and he had a heart. Sooner or later there would come a day when he would want the utmost the Church could do for him.
"You can't wonder if I am a little afraid," Claude said presently. "There has been some hard hitting from your pulpit within the last year."
"You have heard my moralities—I won't call them sermons?"
"Yes, I have heard; but I doubt if I have enjoyed your diatribes as much as the other sinners, especially the women of your flock. They love to be told they are a shade worse than Semiramis, if you will only imply that they are as fascinating as Cleopatra."
"Poor worms," said the priest with a long-drawn sigh. "They are such very poor creatures. Even their sins are petty."