“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, 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 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!”

“Who is it?”

“Mr. Fogarty.”

“O, come in! come in!”

A pale, oval face came forward into the light.  The arch of its fair trailing moustache was repeated in the fair eyebrows looped above pleasantly astonished eyes.  Mr. Fogarty was a modest grocer.  He had failed in business in a licensed house in the city because his financial condition had constrained him to tie himself to second-class distillers and brewers.  He had opened a small shop on Glasnevin Road where, he flattered himself, his manners would ingratiate him with the housewives of the district.  He bore himself with a certain grace, complimented little children and spoke with a neat enunciation.  He was not without culture.

Mr. Fogarty brought a gift with him, a half-pint of special whisky.  He inquired politely for Mr. Kernan, placed his gift on the table and sat down with the company on equal terms.  Mr. Kernan appreciated the gift all the more since he was aware that there was a small account for groceries unsettled between him and Mr. Fogarty.  He said: 

“I wouldn’t doubt you, old man.  Open that, Jack, will you?”

Mr. Power again officiated.  Glasses were rinsed and five small measures of whisky were poured out.  This new influence enlivened the conversation.  Mr. Fogarty, sitting on a small area of the chair, was specially interested.