But he felt more at ease, less desperately anxious, more childlike, more content to rest on the authority that claimed without explanation, and asserted that the world, as a matter of fact, proved by evidences without and within, was made this way and not that, for this purpose and not the other.

Yet he had used the conveniences which he hated; he had 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.