“Of course I’m right,” said Mr Cunningham. “I haven’t been in the world all this time and seen most sides of it without being a judge of character.” The gentlemen drank again, one following another’s example. Mr Kernan seemed to be weighing something in his mind. He was impressed. He had a high opinion of Mr Cunningham as a judge of character and as a reader of faces. He asked for particulars. “O, it’s just a retreat, you know,” said Mr Cunningham. “Father Purdon is giving it. It’s for business men, you know.” “He won’t be too hard on us, Tom,” said Mr Power persuasively. “Father Purdon? Father Purdon?” said the invalid. “O, you must know him, Tom,” said Mr Cunningham stoutly. “Fine jolly fellow! He’s a man of the world like ourselves.” “Ah, ... yes. I think I know him. Rather red face; tall.” “That’s the man.” “And tell me, Martin.... Is he a good preacher?” “Munno.... It’s not exactly a sermon, you know. It’s just kind of a friendly talk, you know, in a common-sense way.” Mr Kernan deliberated. Mr M’Coy said: “Father Tom Burke, that was the boy!” “O, Father Tom Burke,” said Mr Cunningham, “that was a born orator. Did you ever hear him, Tom?” “Did I ever hear him!” said the invalid, nettled. “Rather! I heard him....” “And yet they say he wasn’t much of a theologian,” said Mr Cunningham. “Is that so?” said Mr M’Coy. “O, of course, nothing wrong, you know. Only sometimes, they say, he didn’t preach what was quite orthodox.” “Ah! ... he was a splendid man,” said Mr M’Coy. “I heard him once,” Mr Kernan continued. “I forget the subject of his discourse now. Crofton and I were in the back of the ... pit, you know ... the——” “The body,” said Mr Cunningham. “Yes, in the back near the door. I forget now what.... O yes, it was on the Pope, the late Pope. I remember it well. Upon my word it was magnificent, the style of the oratory. And his voice! God! hadn’t he a voice! _The Prisoner of the Vatican_, he called him. I remember Crofton saying to me when we came out——” “But he’s an Orangeman, Crofton, isn’t he?” said Mr Power. “‘Course he is,” said Mr Kernan, “and a damned decent Orangeman too. We went into Butler’s in Moore Street—faith, I was genuinely moved, tell you the God’s truth—and I remember well his very words. _Kernan_, he said, _we worship at different altars_, he said, _but our belief is the same_. Struck me as very well put.” “There’s a good deal in that,” said Mr Power. “There used always to be crowds of Protestants in the chapel where Father Tom was preaching.” “There’s not much difference between us,” said Mr M’Coy. “We both believe in——” He hesitated for a moment. “... in the Redeemer. Only they don’t believe in the Pope and in the mother of God.” “But, of course,” said Mr Cunningham quietly and effectively, “our religion is _the_ religion, the old, original faith.” “Not a doubt of it,” said Mr Kernan warmly. Mrs Kernan came to the door of the bedroom and announced: “Here’s a visitor for you!”