“Oh, no, but a friend of mine—Alan Merivale’s uncle—has been killed. It seems all wrong.”
“My dear old chap,” said Mr. Viner earnestly, “I’m sorry for you.”
“Oh, it isn’t me you’ve got to pity,” Michael cried. “I’d be glad of his death. It’s the finest death a fellow can have. But there’s nothing fine about it, when one sees these gibbering blockheads shouting and yelling about nothing. I don’t know what’s the matter with England.”
“Is England any worse than the rest of the world?” asked Mr. Viner.
“All this wearing of buttons and khaki ties!” Michael groaned.
“But that’s the only way the man in the street can show his devotion. You don’t object to ritualism, do you? You cross yourself and bow down. The church has colours and lights and incense. Do all these dishonour Our Lord’s death?”
“That’s different,” said Michael. “And anyway I don’t know that the comparison is much good to me now. I think I’ve lost my faith. I am sorry to shock you, Mr. Viner.”
“You don’t shock me at all, my dear boy.”
“Don’t I?” said Michael in slightly disappointed tones.
“You forget that a priest is more difficult to shock than anyone on earth.”