"Of course," said Father Jervis, "everything runs on those lines now. You see we're matter-of-fact, and it's really rather obvious, when you think of it, to dedicate the volor lines to the angels. We've been becoming more and more obvious for the last fifty years. . . . By the way, Monsignor, you must take care not to give yourself away. You'd better not ask many questions except of me."
Monsignor changed the subject.
"When shall we get to Paris?" he asked.
"We shall be a little late, I think, unless they make up time.
We're due at three. I hope there won't be any delay at Brighton.
Sometimes on windy nights——"
"I suppose the descending and the starting again takes some time."
The priest laughed.
"We don't descend at places en route," he said. "The tender comes up to us. It'll probably be in its place by now. We aren't ten minutes away."
The other compressed his lips and was silent.
Presently, far away to the southward beneath the soft starlit sky, the luminous road down which they travelled seemed to expand once more almost abruptly into another vast spread of lights. But as they approached this did not extend any farther, but lay cut off sharp by a long, curving line of almost complete darkness.
"Brighton . . . the sea . . . And there's the tender waiting."