Monsignor roused himself.

“I know it’s the Contemplative Monastery of Europe,” he said.

“Just so.  It’s also the mental hospital of Europe.  You see it’s very favourably placed.  None of the great lines of volors pass over it now.  It’s entirely secluded from the world.  Of course there are the secular business centres of the country, as they always were, in north and south—­Dublin and Belfast; they’re like any other town, only rather quieter.  But outside these you might say that the whole island is one monastic enclosure.  I’ve brought a little book on it I thought you might like to look at.”

He handed a little volume out of his bag. (It was printed on the usual nickel-sheets, invented by Edison fifty years before.)

“And to-night?” asked Monsignor heavily.

“To-night we’re staying at Thurles.  I made all arrangements this afternoon.”

“And our programme?”

Father Jervis smiled.

“That’ll depend on the guest-master,” he said, “We put ourselves entirely under his orders, as I told you.  He’ll see us to-night or to-morrow morning; and the rest is in his hands.”

“What’s the system?” asked Monsignor suddenly and abruptly looking at him.

“The system?”

“Yes.”

Father Jervis considered.

“It’s hard to put it into words,” he said.  “I suppose you might say that they used atmosphere and personality.  They’re the strongest forces we know of—­far stronger, of course, than argument.  It’s very odd how they used to be neglected—–­”

“Eh?”

“Yes; until quite recently there was hardly any deliberate use of them at all.  Well, now we know that they effect more than any persuasion . . . or . . . or . . . diet.  And of course enclosed Religious naturally become experts in interior self-command, and therefore can apply these things better than anyone else.”

He waved his hands vaguely and explanatorily.

“It’s impossible to put it into words,” he said.  “The very essence of it is that it can’t be.”

Monsignor sighed and looked drearily out of the window.

* * * * *

As the hours of the day had gone by it had been this dreariness that had deepened on him, after the violent emotions of the morning.  It was as if he already saw himself beaten down and crushed by those forces he had begun to recognize.  And even this reminder that he was passing for a few days under a tyranny that was yet more severe failed to requicken any resentment.  Inwardly the fire smouldered still red and angry; outwardly he was passive and obedient, and scarcely wished to be otherwise.

There was nothing of interest to be seen out of the window.  The autumn evening was drawing in, and the far-off horizon of hills, with the rim of the sea already visible beyond it, was dark and lead-coloured under the darkening sky.  He thought vaguely of Dom Adrian, in that melancholy and ineffective mood which evening suggests . . . he had been alive at this hour last night and now . . .  Well, he had passed to the Secret which this world interpreted now so confidently. . . .