Now, Austin was courteous to everyone; but to anybody he disliked his politeness was simply deadly.  Of course he took no notice of the young parson’s tacit insolence; he only longed, as fervently as he knew how to long, for an opportunity of being polite to him.  And the occasion was soon forthcoming.  The conversation growing more general by degrees, a reference was made by the vicar, in passing, to a certain clergyman of profound scholarship and enlightened views, whose recently published book upon the prophet Daniel had been painfully exercising the minds of the editor and readers of the Church Times; and it was then that the curate’s friend, without moving a muscle of his face, suddenly leaned forward and said, in a rasping voice: 

“The man’s an impostor and a heretic.  He ought to be burned.  I would gladly walk in the procession, singing the ‘Te Deum,’ and set fire to the faggots myself."[A]

And there was no doubt he meant it.  A dead silence fell upon the party.  The curate looked horribly annoyed.  The ladies exclaimed “Oh!” with a little shudder of dismay.  The vicar started, fidgeted, and blinked more nervously than ever.  Then Austin, with the most charming manner in the world, broke the spell.

“Really!” he exclaimed, turning towards the speaker, a bright smile of interest upon his face.  “That’s a most delightfully original suggestion.  May I ask what religion you belong to?”

“What religion!” scowled the curate’s friend, astounded at the enquiry.

“Yes—­it must be one I never heard of,” replied Austin, sweetly.  “I am so awfully ignorant, you know; I know nothing of geography, and scarcely anything about the religions of savage countries.  Are you a Thug?”

“Oh, Austin!” breathed Aunt Charlotte, faintly.

“I always do make such mistakes,” continued Austin, with his most engaging air; “I’m so sorry, please forgive me if I’m stupid.  I forgot, of course Thugs don’t burn people alive, they only strangle them.  Perhaps I’m thinking of the Bosjesmans, or the Andaman Islanders, or the aborigines of New Guinea.  I do get so mixed up!  But I’ve often thought how lovely it would be to meet a cannibal.  You aren’t a cannibal, are you?” he added wistfully.

“I’m a priest of the Church of England,” replied the curate’s friend, with crushing scorn, though his face was livid.  “When you’re a little older you’ll probably understand all that that implies.”

“Fancy!” exclaimed Austin, with an air of innocent amazement.  “I’ve heard of the Church of England, but I quite thought you must belong to one of those curious persuasions in Africa, isn’t it—­or is it Borneo?—­where the services consist in skinning people alive and then roasting them for dinner.  It occurred to me that you might have gone there as a missionary, and that the savages had converted you instead of you converting the savages.  I’m sure I beg your pardon.  And have you ever set fire to a bishop?”