(I) It was a few minutes after they had finished their almost silent meal that evening, that Monsignor suddenly leaned forward from his chair in the great cool loggia and passed his hands over his eyes like a sleepy man.

From the streets outside still came the murmur of innumerable footsteps and voices and snatches of music.
"Tired ?" asked the other gently.

(He had not spoken for some minutes, and remembering the long silence, had wondered if, after all, it had been wise to bring a man with such an experience behind him to such a rush and excitement as that through which they had passed to-day.) Monsignor said nothing for an instant.

He looked round the room, opened and closed his lips, and then, leaning back again, suddenly smiled.

Then he took up the pipe he had laid aside just now and blew through it.
"No," he said.