| "And not even here do all agree—no, not any one with himself." |
| —Marcus Aurelius. (Long.) |
CHAPTER I
Two men passed the Church of the Immaculate Conception, wheeled suddenly round, and came back.
"By Jove, Driscoll, you have been outside of civilization!" said one, who was fair and florid, with a general suggestion of potential apoplexy polished by the oil of indulgence. "What! you haven't heard the Reverend Algarcife? Why, he rivals in popularity the Brockenhurst scandal, and his power is only equalled by that of—of Tammany."
John Driscoll laughed cynically.
"Let's have the scandal, by all means," he returned. "Spare me the puling priests."
"Bless my soul, man, don't tell me the Brockenhurst affair hasn't reached the Pacific slope! What a hell of a place! Well, Darbey was named corespondent, you know. You remember Darbey, the fellow who owned that dandy racer, La Bella, and lost her to Owens at cards? But the papers are full of it. Next thing you'll tell me you don't see the Sun."
"A fact. I don't read newspapers, I write them—or used to. But what about this priest? I knew an Algarcife in my green and ambitious youth, but he wasn't a priest; he was a pagan, and a deuced solemn one at that."