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–True fold? Do I? And doesn’t the Lord Mayor and the other gougers in the City Hall? And look at the way they’re behaving—killing unfortunate women?

–Never mind that subject.

–Till the day I die I’ll mind that subject, Mr Collopy retorted excitedly. Eight hundred lashes for telling the truth according to your conscience? What am I talking about—the holy friars in Spain propagated the true faith by driving red hot nails into the backs of unfortunate Jewmen.

–Nonsense.

–And scalding their testicles with boiling water.

–You exaggerate, Collopy.

–And ramming barbed wire or something of the kind up where-you-know. And all A.M.D.G., to use your own motto, Father.

–For heaven’s sake Collopy have sense, Father Fahrt said calmly and sadly. I do not know where you have read those lurid and silly things.

–Father Fahrt, Mr Collopy said earnestly, you don’t like the Reformation. Maybe I’m not too fond of it myself, either. But it was our own crowd, those ruffians in Spain and all, who provoked it. They called decent men heretics and the remedy was to put a match to them. To say nothing of a lot of crooked Popes with their armies and their papal states, putting duchesses and nuns up the pole and having all Italy littered with their bastards, and up to nothing but backstairs work and corruption at the courts of God knows how many decent foreign kings. Isn’t that a fact?

–It is not a fact, Collopy. The Reformation was a doctrinal revolt, inspired I have no doubt by Satan. It had nothing to do with human temporal weaknesses in the Papacy or elsewhere.

–Well now, do you tell me, Mr Collopy sneered.

–Yes, I do. I hate no man, not even Luther. Indeed, by his translation of the Bible, he can take credit for having in effect invented my own language, die schöne deutsche Sprache. But he was possessed by the Devil. He was a heretic. Heresiarch would be a better word. And when he died in I545——

–Excuse me, Father Fahrt.

I was profoundly startled to hear the brother interjecting. He had been undisguisedly following this heated colloquy but it seemed to me unthinkable and provocative that he should intervene. Clearly Mr Collopy and Father Fahrt were equally surprised as they swung round their necks to look at him.

–Yes, my lad? Father Fahrt said.

–Luther did not die in 1545, said the brother. It was 1546.

–Well, well, now, maybe you are right, Father Fahrt said good-humouredly. Maybe you are right. Alas, my old head was never very good for figures. Well, Collopy, I see you have a theologian in the family.

–An historian, the brother said.

–And I’ll correct that correction, Mr Collopy said acidly. A bloody young gurrier that won’t apply himself with application to his studies, that’s what we have. Give me that glass of yours, Father.

There was another intermission while the brother with great elaboration of manner reapplied himself to his studies. After taking a long draught from his new drink, Mr Collopy sank farther back in his shapeless chair and sighed very deeply.

–I’m afraid, Father Fahrt, he said at last, we are only wasting time and just annoying each other with these arguments. These things have been argued out years ago. You’d imagine we here were like Our Lord disputing with the doctors in the temple. The real question is this: What action can we take? What can be done?

–Well, that’s certainly a more reasonable approach, Collopy. Much more reasonable. And much more practical.

–Quod faciamemus, ah?

–Have you thought about a public meeting at all?

–By the jappers I have, many a time, Mr Collopy said with some sadness. I gave it my best considerations. It would be no good. And do you know why? Only men go to public meetings. No lady would be found dead at a public meeting. You know that? You would find only prostitutes hanging around. And men? What good are they? Sure they don’t give a goddam if women were dying like flies in the street. They have only two uses for women, Father—either go to bed with them or else thrash the life out of them. I was half thinking of trying to enlist the support of this new