"A boy like me wouldn't, probably."
The Tenor smiled. "And what do you call yourself, pray? A man?" he asked.
"No; a bright particular spirit."
It was not inappropriate, the Tenor thought, and he got up. "It does not often happen so," he said; "but now I think of it I believe I have some Burgundy in the house. The dean sent me a dozen the last time I was out of sorts, and there is some left."
"I know," said the Boy. "It is in the cupboard under the stairs on the left hand side."
When the Tenor came back with the Burgundy the Boy settled himself in an easy-chair with a glass on the table beside him, and it was evident that his mood had changed. He was thoughtful for a little, sitting with solemn eyes, looking out at the cathedral opposite.
There was only one rose-shaded lamp left alight in the long low room, and the dimness within made it possible to see out into the clear night and distinguish objects easily.
"When I look out at that great pile and realize its antiquity, I suffer," the Boy said at last, "Do you know what it is, the awful oppression of the ages?"
The Tenor did not answer for a moment, then he said:
"I never see you at church."