Part 27 (1/2)

Paul pointed out that in the House of Lords one had the whole bench of Bishops.

”I'm not a member of the Established Church, Mr. Savelli,” replied Mr.

Finn. ”I'm a Dissenter--a Free Zionist.”

”I've heard him conduc' the service,” said Barney Bill. ”He built the Meeting House close by, yer know. I goes sometimes to try and get converted. But I'm too old and stiff in the j'ints. No longer a pagan, but a crock, sonny. But I likes to listen to him. Gorbli--bless me, it's a real bean feast--that's what it is. He talks straight from the shoulder, he does, just as you talked to-night. Lets 'em 'ave it bing-bang in the eye. Don't he, Jane?”

”Bill means,” she explained, with the shadow of a smile, for Paul's benefit, ”that Mr. Finn is an eloquent preacher.”

”D'yer suppose he didn't understand what I meant?” he exclaimed, setting down the beer gla.s.s which he was about to raise to his lips.

”Him, what I discovered reading Sir Walter Scott with the cover off when he was a nipper with no clothes on? You understood, sonny.”

”Of course I did.” He laughed gaily and turned to his host, who had suffered Barney Bill's queer eulogy with melancholy indulgence. ”One of these days I should like to come and hear you preach.”

”Any Sunday, at ten and six. You would be more than welcome.”

The meal was over. Barney Bill pulled a blackened clay pipe from his waistcoat pocket and a paper of tobacco.

”I'm a non-smoker,” said Mr. Finn to Paul, ”and I'm sorry I've nothing to offer you--I see little company, so I don't keep cigars in the house--but if you would care to smoke---” he waved a courteous and inviting hand.

Paul whipped out his cigarette case. It was of gold--a present last Christmas from the Winwood fitting part of the equipment of a Fortunate Youth. He opened it, offered a cigarette to Barney Bill.

”Garn!” said the old man. ”I smokes terbakker,” and he filled his pipe with s.h.a.g.

Mr. Finn rose from the table. ”Will you excuse me, Mr. Savelli, if I leave you? I get up early to attend to my business. I must be at Billingsgate at half-past five to buy my fish. Besides, I have been preventing your talk with our friends. So pray don't go. Good-night, Mr. Savelli.”

As he shook hands Paul met the sorrowful liquid eyes fixed on him with strange earnestness. ”I must thank you for your charming hospitality. I hope you'll allow me to come and see you again.”

”My house is yours.”

It was a phrase--a phrase of Castilian politeness--oddly out of place in the mouth of a Free Zionist purveyor of fried fish. But it seemed to have more than a Castilian, more than a Free Zionist significance. He was still pondering over it when Mr. Finn, having bidden Jane and Barney Bill good-night, disappeared.

”Ah!” said Barney Bill, lifting up the beer jug in order to refill his gla.s.s, and checked whimsically by the fact of its emptiness. ”Ah,” said he, setting down the jug and limping round the table, ”let us hear as how you've been getting on, sonny.”

They drew their chairs about the great hearth, in which the idiotic little Viennese plaster animals sported in movement eternally arrested, and talked of the years that had pa.s.sed. Paul explained once more his loss of Jane and his fruitless efforts to find her.

”We didn't know,” said Jane. ”We thought that either you were dead or had forgotten us--or had grown too big a man for us.”

”Axing your pardon,” said Barney Bill, taking his blackened clay from his lips and holding it between his gnarled fingers, ”you said so. I didn't. I always held that, if he wasn't dead, the time would come when, as it was to-night, the three of us would be sitting round together. I maintained,” he added solemnly after a puff or two, ”that his heart was in the right place. I'm a broken-down old crock, no longer a pagan; but I'm right. Ain't I, sonny?” He thrust an arm into the ribs of Paul, who was sitting between them.

Paul looked at Jane. ”I think this proves it.”

She returned his look steadily. ”I own I was wrong. But a woman only proves herself to be right by always insisting that she is wrong.”

”My dear Jane,” cried Paul. ”Since when have you become so psychological?”

”Gorblime,” said Barney Bill, ”what in thunder's that?”

”I know,” said Jane. ”You”--to Paul--”were good enough to begin my education. I've tried since to go on with it.”