was that in him which compelled Jack's admiration. I suppose it was that
which is conveniently labeled "character." Certainly, nearly everybody
who came into contact with him felt the same in some degree.

His becoming a Catholic had been an amazing shock to Jack, who had
always supposed that Frank, like himself, took the ordinary sensible
English view of religion. To be a professed unbeliever was bad form--it
was like being a Little Englander or a Radical; to be pious was equally
bad form--it resembled a violent devotion to the Union Jack. No;
religion to Jack (and he had always hitherto supposed, to Frank) was a
department of life in which one did not express any particular views:
one did not say one's prayers; one attended chapel at the proper times;
if one was musical, one occasionally went to King's on Sunday afternoon;
in the country one went to church on Sunday morning as one went to the
stables in the afternoon, and that was about all.

Frank had been, too, so extremely secretive about the whole thing. He
had marched into Jack's rooms in Jesus Lane one morning nearly a
fortnight ago.

"Come to mass at the Catholic Church," he said.

"Why, the--" began Jack.

"I've got to go. I'm a Catholic."

"_What!_"

"I became one last week."