left London a bare twelve hours before, and now here he sat in a place which was either a stagnant backwater of life, or else the very mid-current of it; he was not yet sure which.
There was a step outside, a handle was turned; and the Cardinal-Protector came through.
Percy had not seen him for four years, and for a moment scarcely recognised him.
It was a very old man that he saw now, bent and feeble, his face covered with wrinkles, crowned by very thin, white hair, and the little scarlet cap on top; he was in his black Benedictine habit with a plain abbatial cross on his breast, and walked hesitatingly, with a black stick. The only sign of vigour was in the narrow bright slit of his eyes showing beneath drooping lids. He held out his hand, smiling, and Percy, remembering in time that he was in the Vatican, bowed low only as he kissed the amethyst.
"Welcome to Rome, father," said the old man, speaking with an unexpected briskness. "They told me you were here half-an-hour ago; I thought I would leave you to wash and have your coffee."
Percy murmured something.
"Yes; you are tired, no doubt," said the Cardinal, pulling out a chair.
"Indeed not, your Eminence. I slept excellently."
The Cardinal made a little gesture to a chair.
"But I must have a word with you. The Holy Father wishes to see you at eleven o'clock."
Percy started a little.
"We move quickly in these days, father. . . . There is
