The other raised a shocked hand.
"Holy Padre! Reverend Father! Virginibus puerisque, if you please."
The Parson turned to find Kit at his elbow.
"I'm only a deacon," he grumbled. And it's only what you French gentry call a fashion de polly."
"I am not French—or only on my mother's side," replied the other gently.
"Well, Frenchified then—it's all the same, ain't it?—all that bowin and scrapin and humbuggin business—you know what I mean."
"Yes, yes, I know, my polished friend…. And as to these same couleur-de-rose gentry I understand your feelings entirely, and for the very good reason that I share them. And I don't mind telling you in confidence that as to the bulk of them your description is not too highly-coloured."
"And if they're that, what are you, I'd like to know?" shouted the Parson.
"I am an Irishman. I serve my country—I do not sell her."
"And are all Irishmen traitors?"