It was at dinner, one frosty winter evening, and we were all in good spirits.  Two or three animated conversations were going on at the table.  Father Payne was telling one of his dreams to the three who were nearest to him, and, funny as most of his dreams were, this was unusually so.  There was a burst of laughter and a silence—­a sudden sharp silence, in which Vincent, who was continuing a conversation, was heard to say to Barthrop, in a tone of fierce vindictiveness, “I hate him like the devil!” Another laugh followed, and Vincent blushed.  “Perhaps I ought not to say that?” he said in hurried tones.

“You are quite right,” said Father Payne to Vincent, encouragingly—­“at least you may be quite right.  I don’t know of whom you were speaking.”

“Yes, who is it, Vincent?” said someone, leaning forwards.

“No, no,” said Father Payne, “that’s not fair!  It was meant to be a private confession.”

“But you don’t hate people, Father?” said Lestrange, looking rather pained.

“I, dear man?” said Father Payne.  “Yes, of course I do!  I loathe them!  Where are your eyes and ears?  All decent people do.  How would the world get on without it?”

Lestrange looked rather shocked.  “I don’t understand,” he said.  “I always gathered that you thought it our business to—­well, to love people.”

“Our business, yes!” said Father Payne; “but our pleasure, no!  One must begin by hating people.  What is there to like about many of us?”

“Why, Father,” said Vincent, “you are the most charitable of men!”

Father Payne gave him a little bow.  “Come,” he said, “I will make a confession.  I am by nature the most suspicious of mankind.  I have all the uncivilised instincts.  There are people of whom I hate the sight and the sound, and even the scent.  My natural impulse is to see the worst points of everyone.  I admit that people generally improve upon acquaintance, but I have no weak sentiment about my fellow-men—­they are often ugly, stupid, ill-mannered, ill-tempered, unpleasant, unkind, selfish.  It is a positive delight sometimes to watch a thoroughly nasty person, and to reflect how much one detests him.  It is a sign of grace to do so.  How otherwise should one learn to hate oneself?  If you hate nobody, what reason is there for trying to improve?  It is impossible to realise how nasty you yourself can be until you have seen other people being nasty.  Then you say to yourself, ‘Come, that is the kind of thing that I do.  Can I really be like that?’”

“But surely,” said Lestrange, “if you do not try to love people, you cannot do anything for them; you cannot wish them to be different.”