‘Wilfrid who?’ said Dan. ‘You come along too.’
‘Wilfrid—Saint of Sussex, and Archbishop of York. I shall wait till he asks me.’ He waved them forward. Their feet squeaked on the old grave slabs in the centre aisle. The Archbishop raised one hand with a pink ring on it, and said something in Latin. He was very handsome, and his thin face looked almost as silvery as his thin circle of hair.
‘Are you alone?’ he asked.
‘Puck’s here, of course,’ said Una. ‘Do you know him?’
‘I know him better now than I used to.’ He beckoned over Dan’s shoulder, and spoke again in Latin. Puck pattered forward, holding himself as straight as an arrow. The Archbishop smiled.
‘Be welcome,’ said he. ‘Be very welcome.’
‘Welcome to you also, O Prince of the Church,’ Puck replied. The Archbishop bowed his head and passed on, till he glimmered like a white moth in the shadow by the font.
‘He does look awfully princely,’ said Una. ‘Isn’t he coming back?’
‘Oh yes. He’s only looking over the church. He’s very fond of churches,’ said Puck. ‘What’s that?’
The Lady who practises the organ was speaking to the blower-boy behind the organ-screen. ‘We can’t very well talk here,’ Puck whispered. ‘Let’s go to Panama Corner.’