Nosebag. But I was going to say, this new Pope seems a fine old chap. Doing all sorts of good. I’ve heard that he’s set up a Penny Roman Magazine—and has, with his own hands, turned I don’t know how many sods for railways—and let perlitical people out of prison, and——
Slowgoe. Yes, yes; we know Rome before this. All a blind. People who know anything, know that very well. Why, there isn’t an Italian boy that sells images—and I suppose you’ve heard that Dr Pusey and Dr Newman are coming out in Roman cement, at sixpence a-head, for mantelpieces?—there isn’t, I say, an Italian image-boy as doesn’t expect to hear the Pope say High Mass in Westminster Abbey.
Mrs Nutts. Not possible!
Slowgoe. Mrs Nutts, though I honour you for what you’ve said about the Arab horses, nevertheless you don’t know Rome. Why, the Pope will come to England, just as Ibraham Parker did, to see—that’ll be the excuse—our works and manufactures. He’ll be asked to take a snack at Oxford, in course. And then when he’s seen all the sights—and p’r’aps given Madame Tussaud a sittin’ for her waxwork—he’ll just go off softly in a cab to Westminster Abbey, pay his money at the door, as if nothing was the matter, and then quietly walk in. Now I’m not an alarmist—I should be sorry if I was—but with the Pope once well inside Westminster Abbey, who do you think is to get him out agin?
Mrs Nutts. To be sure. And for what I know, he’d turn us all into nuns; but I know what I’d do—I’d die first!
Nutts. No doubt on it, Mrs Nutts. But what a comfort, my love, that they’d allow you the preference. Shouldn’t wonder, Slowgoe, if they didn’t make you a cardinal.
Peabody. Yes; Cardinale Lentopasso. Rome has certainly seen her Slowgoes in her day. The Lentopasso——
Mrs Nutts. Now, Mr Peabody, none of your Greek, if you have been a schoolmaster.
Peabody. The Lentopasso is a very old name in the Church. The family crest is a snail proper chewing opium.
Mrs Nutts. The nasty creturs! But just like ’em.