"Quite so," answered Morris, smiling. "When I have from five to seven
thousand to spare I will set about the job, and hire a high-church
chaplain with a fine voice to come and say Mass for your benefit. By the
way, would you like a confessional also? You omitted it from the list."

"I think not. Besides, what on earth should I confess, except being
always late for prayers through oversleeping myself in the morning, and
general uselessness?"

"Oh, I daresay you might find something if you tried," suggested Morris.

"Speak for yourself, please, Morris. To begin with your own account,
there is the crime of sacrilege in using a chapel as a workshop. Look,
those are all tombstones of abbots and other holy people, and under
each tombstone one of them is asleep. Yet there you are, using strong
language and whistling and making a horrible noise with hammers just
above their heads. I wonder they don't haunt you; I would if I were
they."

"Perhaps they do," said Morris, "only I don't see them."

"Then they can't be there."

"Why not? Because things are invisible and intangible it does not follow
that they don't exist, as I ought to know as much as anyone."

"Of course; but I am sure that if there were anything of that sort about
you would soon be in touch with it. With me it is different; I could
sleep sweetly with ghosts sitting on my bed in rows."