And once more Paul could not believe his ears.
In silence the two finished their walk. They stood for a few minutes outside of Selwyn Lodge, the tall big man looking into the boy's face with oddly troubled eyes. "But——" he said at last. He broke off abruptly. "I won't say it," he said. "It's not my job. You've asked me one thing, and given me one confidence; I can say no more. You must settle your own life."
"That's what Father Vassall says," put in Paul.
The other nodded. "He knows, of course," he said, as one professional might speak of another. "But look here: we could do with you in Mozambique if you care to come."
Paul was interiorly shaken by that more than a little. It was so sudden. In a flash, he saw a path before his feet. A clergyman, a missionary; not quite as he had imagined, but suppose the Bishop, after all, were right? Catholicism without the Pope, Catholicism in a sense with a kindlier, less definite cross. Fordham suddenly menaced him. What if it meant, well, well—betrayal, a cleverly hid, intriguing, attractive scheme, but betrayal. He hesitated.
"Think it over," said the Bishop.
He did not, could not know, of course, but the word tipped the scale. Think! Paul had thought till he could think no more. For a while he was done with thought. Fordham meant a year's rest, a year's solace.
"Thank you ever so much," he said. "I won't forget it. And thanks awfully for hearing me. But I'm booked for a year at least. Good-bye."
"Good-bye," said the Bishop. "God bless you."
Paul walked off to St. Mary's alone, if a man who walks with a thousand fears, doubts, desires, hopes and loves legioned in his heart, ever walks alone.