The morning session of the Assembly was supposed to begin at ten, and at this hour next morning the unsophisticated Henry Beechtree took his seat in the Press Gallery. He soon perceived his mistake. The show obviously was not going to begin for ages. No self-respecting delegate or journalist would come into the hall on the stroke of the hour. The superior thing, in this as in other departments of life, was to be late. Lateness showed that serene contempt for the illusion we call time which is so necessary to ensure the respect of others and oneself. Only the servile are punctual....

But “Nothing to swank about in being late,” thought Henry morosely; “only means they've spent too long over their coffee and bread and honey, the gluttons. I could have done the same myself.”

Indeed, he wished that he had, for he fell again into the hands of the elderly clergyman who had addressed him yesterday, and who was, of course, punctual too.

“I see,” said the clergyman, “that you have one of the French comic papers with you. A pity their humour is so much spoilt by suggestiveness.”

Suggestiveness. Henry could never understand that word as applied in condemnation. Should not everything be suggestive? Or should all literature, art, and humour be a cul-de-sac, suggesting no idea whatsoever? Henry did not want to be uncharitable, but he could not but think that those who used this word in this sense laid themselves open to the suspicion (in this case, at least, quite unjustified), that their minds were only receptive of one kind of suggestion, and that a coarse one.

“I expect,” he replied, “that you mean coarseness. People often do when they use that word, I notice. Anyhow, the papers are not very funny, I find.”

“Suggestiveness,” said the clergyman, “is seldom amusing.”

Before Henry had time to argue again about this word, he hurried on.

“I sent yesterday a long message to the Church Times, the Guardian, the Commonwealth, and the Challenge about the first meeting. It is most important that these papers should set before their readers the part that the Church ought to play in promoting international goodwill.”

“Indeed,” said Henry, who did not see Anglican journals. He added vaguely, “The Pope sent a telegram....” For when people spoke to him of Church life, he said “the Pope” mechanically; it was his natural reaction to the subject.

“You interest me,” said the English clergyman. “For the second time you have mentioned the Pope to me. Are you, perhaps, a Roman Catholic?”

“I suppose,” Henry absently agreed, “that is what you would call it.”

“We do, you know,” the clergyman apologised. “Forgive me if it seems discourteous.... You know, then, of course, who that is, opposite?”

Henry looked across the hall to the opposite gallery, and perceived that his companion was referring to a small, delicate-looking elderly man, with the face of a priest and the clothes of a layman, who had just taken his seat there.

“I do not indeed.”

“He is the ex-cardinal Franchi. You know him by reputation, of course.”

“Wasn't he suspended for heresy? I have, I think, seen some of his books.”

“He is a great scholar and a delightful writer. No one has gone more deeply into mediÆval Church history and modern theological criticism. So I am told, but I have not read him myself, as he prefers to write in Italian, though he has a perfect command of several other tongues.”

“Nor I, as I am not very much interested in Church history or theological criticism. Besides, his writings are, I suppose, heretical.”

“I don't know as to that; I am no judge. But he was, I believe, as you say, retired for heresy. And now he lives in the most delightful of mediÆval chÂteaux at Monet, a little village up the lake. I have been to see him there. If I may, I will introduce you. He enjoys making the acquaintance of his co-religionists. In this Calvinistic part of the world the educated classes are nearly all Protestants. The ex-cardinal does not care for Protestants; he finds them parvenus and bourgeois. He is a delightfully courteous host, however, even to those, and a wonderful talker. And his heart is in the League. A wit, a scholar, an aristocrat, a bon-viveur, and a philanthropist. If your Church retains many priests as good as those she expels, she is to be congratulated.”

“She is,” Henry agreed. “She can afford to fling out one or two by the way. Yes; I would like to know him, the ex-cardinal; he looks witty and shrewd, and at the same time an idealist.... But how late they are in beginning. My watch is seldom right, but I imagine it must be after ten-thirty.”

The young man Grattan, with whom Henry had dined last night, lounged in, with his cynical smile.

“You're very young and innocent, Beechtree. I suppose you've been here since ten. It's just on eleven now. The President's not to hand and no one seems to know where he is. Oh, well, it's not his fault; people spoil him. His head's turned, poor Svensen. I expect he made a night of it and is lying in this morning. I don't blame him. We don't need a President. But there seems to be some unrest among the Secretariat.”

This seemed, indeed, to be so. The members of this body, standing about the hall and platform, were animated and perturbed; the more irresponsible juniors seemed amused, others anxious. The Secretary-General was talking gravely to another high official.

The correspondent of the Daily Insurance, who had been talking in the hall to the delegates and Secretariat, watched by Henry from above with some envy, at this point entered the Press Gallery, edged his way to his seat, picked up the papers he had deposited there earlier, and made rapidly for the exit.

“Got a story already?” Grattan said to him.

“No, but there may be one any moment. They've sent round to the Metropole, and Svensen didn't sleep in his bed. He never came in last night after dinner.”

He was off. Grattan whistled, and looked more cheerful.

“That's good enough. That's a story in itself. Didn't sleep in his bed. That's a headline all right. Good old Svensen. Here, I'm going down to hear more. Mustn't let Jefferson get ahead of us. Come along, Beechtree, and nose things out. This will be nuts for our readers. Even your crabbed paper will have to give a column to Svensen Not Sleeping in his Bed. Can't you see all the little eyes lighting up?”

He rushed away, and Henry followed. Meanwhile the bell was rung and MM. les DÉlÉguÉs took their seats. The deputy-President, the delegate for Belgium, took the chair. The President, he announced, was unfortunately not yet in attendance. Pending his arrival, the Assembly would, since time pressed, proceed with the order of the day, which was the election of committees.... The Assembly, always ready to vote, began to do so. It would keep them busy for some time.

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