He had pondered on the matter continually since his father had
spoken to him on Saint Stephen's night; and at one time it seemed that
his father was acting the part of a traitor and at another of a
philosopher. If it were indeed true, after all, that all men were
turning Protestant, and that there was not so much difference between
the two religions, then it would be the act of a wise man to turn
Protestant too, if only for a while. And on the other hand his pride of
birth and his education by his mother and his practice ever since drew
him hard the other way. He was in a strait between the two. He did not
know what to think, and he feared what Marjorie might think.
It was this, then, that had held him silent. He feared what Marjorie
might think, for that was the very thing that he thought that he thought
too, and he foresaw a hundred inconveniences and troubles if it were so.
"How did you know I had anything in my mind?" he asked. "Is it not
enough reason for my coming that you should be here?"
She laughed softly, with a pleasant scornfulness.
"I read you like a printed book," she said. "What else are women's wits
given them for?"
He fell to stroking her hand again at that, but she drew it away.
"Not until you have told me," she said.
So then he told her.
It was a long tale, for it began as far ago as last August, when his
father had come back from giving evidence before the justices at Derby
on a matter of witchcraft, and had been questioned again about his
religion.
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