“God bless her for that!” said Malone, fervently.
“‘—although our excellent housekeeper here, Mrs. Simcox, assures me that such a change would be greatly to my advantage, in this world and in that to come; but if her knowledge of the former is the measure of what she knows of the latter, I shall require other counsel before I read my recantation.’”
“What does she mean by that?” asked Malone.
“‘‘Tis another way of saying, ‘I won’t play a card till I see the money down on the table.’”
“How can that be? Which of us knows what’s going to happen here or in the next world?”
“Maybe the Protestants does! Perhaps that’s the reason they’re always so dark and downcast now.”
Malone shook his head in despair; the problem was too much for him, and he said, “Read on.”
“‘That I am not without the consolations of the Church you will be glad to hear, as I tell you that a French priest, the Abbé Gerard, dines here every Sunday, and sings with me in the evening.’”
“Sings with her. What makes them sing?”
“Religion, of coorse,” said O’Rorke, with a grin of derision. “Listen to me, Peter Malone,” cried he, in a stern voice; “when people is well off in the world, they no more think of going to heaven the way you and I do, than they’d think of travellin’ a journey on a low-backed car.”