‘Austin,’ he helped her out. ‘Father Austin,’ added the nun. ‘And you wish,’ said Sister Aloysia, ‘to buy a dress for your sister?’ ‘Not for my sister,’ said Mr. Austin--‘for my wife.’ Both nuns started back as if he had tried to strike them. ‘Your wife! Your wife! Then you are a Protestant.’ ‘Certainly not,’ he said. ‘I detest all Protestants. I am a Catholic--an Anglo-Catholic.’ Neither of the nuns had ever heard of an Anglo-Catholic before. What manner of religion such people might profess was doubtful and unimportant. One thing was clear--this was not a priest in any sense of the word which they could recognise. They distrusted him, as a wolf, not certainly in the clothing, but using the language, of a sheep. The situation became embarrassing. Mr. Austin prepared to bow himself away. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘I shall ask Lady Geoghegan’--he rolled the title out emphatically; it formed a salve to his wounded dignity--‘I shall ask Lady Geoghegan to purchase the tweed for me. I must be on the look-out for a friend who promised to meet me here this afternoon--a young man whom I contemplate engaging as my curate. I am most particular in the choice of a curate, and should, of course, prefer a public school and ‘Varsity man. I need scarcely say that I refer only to Oxford and Cambridge as the Universities. As a rule, I do not care for Irishmen, but on the recommendation of my friend Dr. Henry, I am willing to consider this Mr. Conneally.’ It seemed to Mr. Austin that a preference for the English Universities, the friendship of a distinguished professor, a contempt for the mere Irishman, and a titled hostess ought to restore the respect he had forfeited by the mention of his wife. Curiously enough, and this shows the disadvantage of a monastic seclusion from the world, the nuns remained unimpressed. The conception of a married priest was too much for them. As he walked away Mr. Austin heard Sister Aloysia murmur: ‘How very indecent!’ Meanwhile, the train from Dublin had arrived, and Mr. Austin, when he returned after his interview with Hyacinth, found that even the two nuns he had victimized had forgotten him in the excitement of gazing at more important visitors. Mr. Justice Saunders, a tall, stout man with a florid face, made a tour of the factory under the charge of one of the senior Sisters. He took little notice of what he was shown, being mainly bent on explaining to his escort how he came to be known in legal circles as ‘Satan Saunders.’ Afterwards he added a tale of how he had once bluffed a crowd in an out-of-the-way country town into giving three cheers for the Queen. ‘You’re all loyal here,’ he said. ‘I saw the Union Jack flying over the gate as I came in.’ The nun smiled, a slow, enigmatic smile, and the Judge, watching her, was struck by her innocence and simplicity. ‘Surely,’ she said, ‘the Church must always be loyal.’ ‘Well, I’m not so sure of that. I’ve met a few firebrands of priests in my time.’