“Let the mother do that. Hers is the purest and most disinterested spirit of the two.”
“Then, why not obey your mother, and––”
Khalid suppresses his anger.
“My mother and I can get along without the interference of our neighbours.”
“Yes, truly. But you will find great solace in going to Church and ceasing your doubts.”
Khalid rises indignant.
“I only doubt the Pharisees, O Reverend, and their Church I would destroy to-day if I could.”
“My child––”
“Here is your hat, O Reverend, and pardon me––you see, I can hardly speak, I can hardly breathe. Good day.”
And he walks out of the house, leaving Father Farouche to digest his ire at his ease, and to wonder, 151 with his three-cornered hat in hand, at the savage demeanour of the son of their pious porter. “Your son,” addressing the mother as he stands under the door-lintel, “is not only an infidel, but he is also crazy. And for such wretches there is an asylum here and a Juhannam hereafter.”