They were on thin ice, he thought. "Come on, this way. That cab will do for us. In you get, mother."
"Well, Paul, and what's the great news?" asked his father as they drove off.
Paul studied his face. He could not tell how he would take it. He would be disappointed, but he might be rather proud. Anyway, he must plunge.
"Mr. Tressor, father, wants me to go down to Fordham, nominally as his agent, really to have a year at least in which to write. He thinks I shall be able to do some good stuff. It will cost me nothing; he will even give me a small salary; and I shall really and truly be able to write at last."
"Paul!" cried his mother, and glanced swiftly at his father.
His father was not looking at him. "I take it, then," he said, "that this project—possibility—of joining the Church of Rome, is postponed—indefinitely?"
"Yes," replied Paul, suddenly astonished.
"Thank God," said Mr. Kestern, "thank God." (He paused a second, swallowing in his throat.) "May I be forgiven for doubting that our Lord ever failed to hear and answer prayer."
A little burst of anger flashed in Paul's heart. "At Thurloe End," he said, "I should have become a Roman Catholic if—if——" He remembered Tressor's comment, and stopped. If! If what? His mother supplied a further example of the diverse possible interpretations of that incident.
"Oh, my son," she said, "you will never know how your father agonised in prayer for you. All the time you were in that terrible place——"