"Oxford?"
"No, Cambridge. I'm sorry. Or at least I'm not really."
The other laughed outright. "We'll agree to differ, and get on famously," he said. "And where do you come from just now, Mr. Kestern?"
Paul determined in a moment to be quite frank. "A Children's Special Service Mission in the Isle of Man, the Keswick Convention, and the Congregationalist Congress in Ripon," he said, very gravely.
"Good," said the other. "From which I gather you are a Nonconformist candidate for the ministry."
"Wrong," said Paul. "I'm Church of England, or I think I am still. And I'm going to be a missionary, or"—and suddenly for the first time he saw, clearly, the gulf that might be ahead—"I pray God that I am."
The Bishop's smile died away, but his tone was none the less kindly when he spoke after a few minutes' quiet scrutiny of the other's face. Then: "Mr. Kestern," he said, "I take it, if you won't think me rude, that you are going through the mill like the rest of us have had to do."
And Paul, impulsively, nodded, and in a few minutes was opening his heart, while the miles slipped fast away and the train rushed as easily as destiny along its railed road.
"You can't be a Roman Catholic," said the Bishop decisively when Paul had finished.
"Why not?"