For not every one who chooses may walk in.

I must pass before the office of the porter, who retains my umbrella, before I make my way to the solemn beadle who sits just inside the doorway--a double precaution, attesting to the majesty of the place.
The beadle knows me.

He no longer demands my ticket.

To be sure, I am not yet one of those old acquaintances on whom he smiles; but I am no longer reckoned among those novices whose passport he exacts.

An inclination of his head makes me free of the temple, and says, as plainly as words, "You are one of us, albeit a trifle young.