And yet, as he walked, he was disturbed.  The proposed Establishment of the Church by the State appeared to him uncharacteristic of both—­of the Church, since he still tended to think that she must in her essence be at war with the world; of the State, since he still tended to think that that too, in its essence, must be at war with religion.  In spite of what he had seen, he had not yet grasped with his imagination that which both experience and intellect justified as true—­namely, that it is the function of the Church to guide the world, and the highest wisdom of the world to organize itself on a supernatural basis.

He walked up and down, saying nothing.  At one end of the long corridor a couple of secretaries whispered together on a settee; at the other he saw passing and repassing hurrying figures that went about their business.  Doors opened occasionally, and a man came out; once or twice he saluted an acquaintance.  But all the while his attention remained fixed upon the door numbered XI, behind which this quietly significant affair proceeded.  The whole place seemed a very temple of stillness.  The thick carpet underfoot, the noiseless doors, the admirable system of the place—­all contributed to create a great solemnity.

He tried to remind himself that he was present at the making of history, but it was useless.  Again and again, as, with an effort, he forced the principles before his mind, his attention whirled off to a detail—­to a contemplation of his chief taking his seat in the House of Lords, and to the fabric of the carpet on which he walked; to the silent whisper of one of the two conversational secretaries; to a wonder as to the form of prayer with which the first professedly Catholic Parliament in England for more than four hundred years would open.

Then he checked himself, reminded himself of certain old proverbs about cups and hares, reflected that Socialism was not beaten yet (in Father Jervis’s phrase), as recent events in Germany had shown. . . .

Once as he turned at the end of the corridor farthest from the secretaries, an interesting little incident happened.  A door opened abruptly, and a man coming out quickly almost ran against him.  Then the man took off his hat and smiled.

“I beg your pardon, Monsignor . . .  I . . .  I can guess your business here.”

Monsignor smiled too, a little guiltily.  He recognized the Socialist leader who had called on him a few months before.

“Yes:  and I’m afraid you don’t approve,” he said.

Mr. Hardy made a little deprecatory gesture, still holding his hat in his hand.

“Oh!  I’m a believer in majorities,” he said.  “And there’s no doubt you have the majority.  But——­”

“Yes?”

“I hope you will be merciful.  That is your Gospel, you know.”

“You think we have the majority?”

“Oh, certainly.  The enfranchisement of women settled all that.  They are always clerical, you know.”