Anthony Babington had broadened and aged considerably during the
last five years. He was still youthful-looking, but he was plainly a man
and no longer a boy. And he presently said as much for his friend.
"You are a man, Robin," he said.--"Why, it slipped my mind!"
He knelt down promptly on the strip of carpet and kissed the palms of
the hands held out to him, as is the custom to do with newly-ordained
priests, and Robin murmured a blessing.
Then the two sat down again.
"And now for the news," said Robin.
Anthony's face grew grave.
"Yours first," he said.
So Robin told him. He had been ordained priest a month ago, at
Chalons-sur-Marne.... The college was as full as it could hold.... They
had had an unadventurous journey.
Anthony put a question or two, and was answered.
"And now," said Robin, "what of Derbyshire; and of the country; and of
my father? And is it true that Ballard is taken?"
Anthony threw an arm over the back of his chair, and tried to seem at
his ease.
"Well," he said, "Derbyshire is as it ever was. You heard of Thomas
FitzHerbert's defection?"
"Mistress Manners wrote to me of it, more than two years ago."
"Well, he does what he can: he comes and goes with his wife or without
her. But he comes no more to Padley. And he scarcely makes a feint even
before strangers of being a Catholic, though he has not declared
himself, nor gone to church, at any rate in his own county. Here in
London I have seen him more than once in Topcliffe's company.
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