"What is the matter with me?" asked the invalid hoarsely.

"It is a small mental explosion, but it has not affected the
mechanism of the brain. There is not, as I have said, a trace of
insanity or of loss of balance. I cannot promise that the injury
will be repaired; but defects that may follow from this can
easily be remedied by study. It simply depends upon yourself,
Monsignor, as to in how long you can be at your post again here.
As soon as you have learned the threads of business, you will be
able to apply yourself as before. I shall look for a report in a
fortnight's time at the latest. Good day, your Eminence."



(II)

The clocks of London were all striking the single stroke of
midnight as the two priests stood on the wind-sheltered platform
of the volor, waiting for the start.

To Monsignor Masterman the scene was simply overwhelming. There
was hardly a detail that was not new and unfamiliar. From where
he stood on the upper deck, grasping the rail before him, his
eyes looked out over a luminous city as lovely as fairyland.
There were no chimneys, of course (these, he had just learnt,
had altogether disappeared more than fifty years ago), but
spires and towers and pinnacles rose before him like a dream,
glowing against the dark sky, lit by the soft radiance of the
streets beneath. To the right, not a hundred yards away, rose
Saint Edward's tower, mellowed now to clear orange by the lapse