“Imprison her for life.”
“O Lord!” said Mr. Barringcourt, and he laughed. Then he laughed again, and again he said, “O Lord!”
The other frowned, and the light of anger glinted in his eye.
“You seem to rather approve of her conduct,” he said. “Certainly I have to thank you for your speech, though, candidly speaking, neither I, nor I believe anyone else, could make head or tail of it” (he spoke in a genuinely puzzled voice), “and for various other things I have to thank you; but in the matter of dealing with this woman, I beg you will not interfere.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Barringcourt, in a low, clear voice, “I shall interfere. The Serpent is like everything else. It can’t afford to get too much talked about, or its reputation’s gone. If you prosecute her, you make yourself and it the laughing-stock of Lucifram.”
“I uphold its sacredness and sanctity.”
“Cant and tomfoolery! You say I made a speech last night you didn’t understand—and I didn’t take the pains to understand it myself. But if you persist in this, I’ll make another before long which will appeal to everyone, and tread on no general corns at all, but that of the individual.”
“You are in a quarrelsome mood to-night.”
“Yes. I’ve been in the society of priests all day, and they weary me.”
The other laughed.