Little pink spots came into his cheeks, a squealing note into his voice.  We interrupted each other more and more rudely.  We invented facts and appealed to authorities whose names I mispronounced; and, finding Gabbitas shy of the higher criticism and the Germans, I used the names of Karl Marx and Engels as Bible exegetes with no little effect.  A silly wrangle! a preposterous wrangle!—­you must imagine our talk becoming louder, with a developing quarrelsome note—­my mother no doubt hovering on the staircase and listening in alarm as who should say, “My dear, don’t offend it!  Oh, don’t offend it!  Mr. Gabbitas enjoys its friendship.  Try to think whatever Mr. Gabbitas says”—­though we still kept in touch with a pretence of mutual deference.  The ethical superiority of Christianity to all other religions came to the fore—­I know not how.  We dealt with the matter in bold, imaginative generalizations, because of the insufficiency of our historical knowledge.  I was moved to denounce Christianity as the ethic of slaves, and declare myself a disciple of a German writer of no little vogue in those days, named Nietzsche.

For a disciple I must confess I was particularly ill acquainted with the works of the master.  Indeed, all I knew of him had come to me through a two-column article in The Clarion for the previous week. . . .  But the Rev. Gabbitas did not read The Clarion.

I am, I know, putting a strain upon your credulity when I tell you that I now have little doubt that the Rev. Gabbitas was absolutely ignorant even of the name of Nietzsche, although that writer presented a separate and distinct attitude of attack upon the faith that was in the reverend gentleman’s keeping.

“I’m a disciple of Nietzsche,” said I, with an air of extensive explanation.

He shied away so awkwardly at the name that I repeated it at once.

“But do you know what Nietzsche says?” I pressed him viciously.

“He has certainly been adequately answered,” said he, still trying to carry it off.

“Who by?” I rapped out hotly.  “Tell me that!” and became mercilessly expectant.

Section 5

A happy accident relieved Mr. Gabbitas from the embarrassment of that challenge, and carried me another step along my course of personal disaster.

It came on the heels of my question in the form of a clatter of horses without, and the gride and cessation of wheels.  I glimpsed a straw-hatted coachman and a pair of grays.  It seemed an incredibly magnificent carriage for Clayton.

“Eh!” said the Rev. Gabbitas, going to the window.  “Why, it’s old Mrs. Verrall!  It’s old Mrs. Verrall.  Really!  What can she want with me?”

He turned to me, and the flush of controversy had passed and his face shone like the sun.  It was not every day, I perceived, that Mrs. Verrall came to see him.

“I get so many interruptions,” he said, almost grinning.  “You must excuse me a minute!  Then—­then I’ll tell you about that fellow.  But don’t go.  I pray you don’t go.  I can assure you. . . .  Most interesting.”