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One evening when Maurice came back from school he brought with him the news that the retreat would begin in three days' time. This news suddenly delivered showed Stephen his position. He could hardly believe that in a year his point of view had changed so completely. Only twelve months ago he had been clamouring for forgiveness and promising endless penances. He could hardly believe that it was no other than he who had clung so fiercely to the sole means of salvation which the Church vouchsafes to her guilty children. He marvelled at the terror which had then possessed him. One evening during the retreat he asked his brother what kind of sermons the priest was giving. The two were standing together looking into the window of a stationer's shop and it was a picture of S. Anthony in the window which had led to the question. Maurice smiled broadly as he answered:



— Hell today.



— And what kind of a sermon was it?



— Usual kind of thing. Stink in the morning and pain of loss in the evening.



Stephen laughed and looked at the square-shouldered boy beside him. Maurice announced facts in a dry satirical voice and his cloudy complexion did not change colour when he laughed. He made Stephen think of the pictures in 'Silas Verney.' His sombre gravity, his careful cleansing of his much-worn clothes, and the premature disillusionment of his manner all suggested the human vesture of some spiritual or philosophic problem transplanted from Holland. Stephen did not know in what stage the problem was and he thought it wiser to allow it its own path of solution.

— Do you know what the priest told us also? asked Maurice after a pause.



— What?



— He said we weren't to have companions.



— Companions?



— That we weren't to go for walks in the evenings with any special companions. If we wanted to take a walk, he said, a lot of us were to go together.



Stephen halted in the street and struck the palms of his hands together.



— What's up with you? said Maurice.



— I know what's up with them, said Stephen. They're afraid.



— Of course they're afraid, said Maurice gravely.



— By the bye of course you have made the retreat?



— O, yes. I'm going to the altar in the morning.



— Are you really?



— Tell the truth, Stephen. When mother gives you the money on Sunday to go in to short twelve in Marlboro' St do you really go to Mass?



Stephen coloured slightly.



— Why do you ask that?



— Tell the truth.



— No... I don't.



— And where do you go?



— O anywhere... about the town.



— So I thought.



— You're a 'cute fellow, said Stephen in a sidewise fashion. Might I ask do you go to mass yourself?



— O, yes, said Maurice.



They walked on for a short time in silence. Then Maurice said:



— I have bad hearing.



Stephen made no remark.



— And I think I must be a little stupid.



— How's that?



In his heart Stephen felt that he was condemning his brother. In this instance he could not admit that freedom from strict religious influences was desirable. It seemed to him that anyone who could contemplate the condition of his soul in such a prosaic manner was not worthy of freedom and was fit only for the severest shackles of the Church.



— Well today the priest was telling us a true story. It was about the death of the drunkard. The priest came in to see him and talked to him and asked him to say he was sorry and to promise to give up drink. The man felt that he was going to die in a few moments but he sat upright in the bed, the priest said, and pulled out a black bottle from under the bedclothes



— Well?



— And said "Father, if this was to be the last I was ever to drink in this world I must drink it."



— Well?



— So he drained the bottle dry. That very moment he dropped dead, said the priest lowering his voice. "That man fell dead in the bed, stone dead. He died and went..." He spoke so low that I couldn't hear but I wanted to know where the man went so I leaned forward to hear and hit my nose a wallop against the bench in front. While I was rubbing it the fellows knelt down to say the prayer so I didn't hear where he went. Amn't I stupid?



Stephen exploded ill laughter. He laughed so loudly that the people who were passing turned to look at him and had to smile themselves by attraction. He put his hands to his sides and the tears almost fell out of his eyes. Every glimpse he caught of Maurice's solemn olive-coloured face set him off on a new burst. He could say nothing between times but — "I'd have given anything to have seen it — 'Father, if this was the last' ...and you with your mouth open. I'd have given anything to have seen it."





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