Father Greer’s nose came down over his upper lip, the corners of his mouth went up, and a succession of sniffs indicated that he was laughing.

“That may be rather severe,” he conceded, “but I may say that, for my part, I consider that Catholics have a sufficiency of pleasing society within their own communion, without striving to go beyond it!”

Father Greer paused, looked round the table as if to receive the general assent, and put his sharp nose into the tumbler of brown whisky and water, to whose replenishing the Doctor had not failed to attend.

A rather stricken silence followed.  Mrs. Mangan’s large and handsome brown eyes turned guiltily to her husband, and moved on from his face to one of the many trophies of the Mount Music Sale, a Protestant chair back, now flaunting itself on a Catholic chair, under the very eyes of the Parish Priest!

Barty glowered at his plate; Tishy, who had not enjoyed herself at the Sale, felt, in consequence, that she was now justified in doing so at the expense of her family, and held up her head, and looked at her father.  It was plain to see that the elephant had felt the prick of the Mahout’s ankus.  The Big Doctor’s face was perturbed.  Tishy saw him look at the little priest’s glass, and knew that he wished it were empty, in order that he might pour into it a propitiatory oblation.  He cleared his throat once or twice before he spoke.

“Very true, Father, very true.  I used to think the same thing in England.  The chaps I used to meet there—­no one would know what religion they belong to, no more than if they were heathens.  That young lad that you weren’t pleased with—­young Coppinger—­I believe he’s as good a Catholic as any of us, but he happens to be thrown mostly among Protestants.  I often think it’s no more than our duty as Catholics to try and see as much as we can of him.  He and Barty here, got to be very great with each other the time he was with us, but it’s only an odd time now that we get a sight of him.”

“I was talking to him a long while, the last time he was home,” said Barty, looking up, with something smouldering in his voice, “he told me he was going to Oxford next October.  It’s well to be him!” he ended defiantly.

“Now, I wouldn’t be too sure of that at all!” said Father Greer, with a smoothness that implied the laying aside of the ankus; “I think, my young friend, that your good father’s house is as safe and happy a place for you as you could wish for!” He turned to the Doctor.  “I may say that there is a belief among certain classes that no one is properly edjucated without they’ve been sent to England.  I thought my friend Barty, was a better Irishman than it seems he is!”

“I’m as good an Irishman as any man!” said Barty, in a sudden blaze, “and may-be better than some!”

His face had turned white, and his eyes, that were as large and dark as his mother’s, met those of Father Greer with the courage of anger.