Mark thought that Sir Charles might have given a mediaeval lining
to this room at least, which with its roll-top desk looked like the
office of the clerk of the works.
"So you want to be a monk?" said Father Burrowes contemptuously. "Want
to dress up in a beautiful white habit, eh?"
"I really don't mind what I wear," said Mark, trying not to appear
ruffled by the imputation of wrong motives. "But I do want to be a monk,
yes."
"You can't come here to play at it," said the Superior, looking keenly
at Mark from his bright blue eyes and lighting up a large pipe.
"Curiously enough," said Mark, who had forgotten the Benedictine
injunction to discourage newcomers that seek to enter a community, "I
wrote to my guardian a few days ago that my impression of Malford Abbey
was rather that it was playing at being monks."
The Superior flushed to a vivid red. He was a burly man of fair
complexion, inclined to plumpness, and with a large mobile mouth
eloquent and sensual. His hands were definitely fat, the backs of them
covered with golden hairs and freckles.
"So you're a critical young gentleman, are you? I suppose we're not
Catholic enough for you. Well," he snapped, "I'm afraid you won't suit
us. We don't want you. Sorry.
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