"Bah!" he began, but he changed it with quick generosity to "Ah well, ah well, ah well! I know the sort of religion you've enjoyed—and, for that matter, adorned. It's a wonderful creed! Have a bath every morning, and go to church with your people. It saves you from bad form, but can't save you from vice."
Doe moved slightly in his chair, as one does when a dentist touches a nerve. Monty stopped, and then added:
"'A daily Mass' is my short way of saying 'A daily celebration of the Holy Communion.'"
"Heavens!" thought I. "He's an R.C."
I felt as though I had lost a friend. Doe, however, was quicker in appraising the terrible facts.
"I s'pose you're a High Churchman," he said; and I've little doubt that he thereupon made up his mind to be a High Churchman too. Monty groaned. He placed in front of Doe his left wrist on which was clasped a bracelet identity disc. He switched on to the disc a shaft of light from an electric torch, and we saw engraved on it his name and the letters "C.E."
"That's what I am, Gazelle," said he, as the light went out, "C. of E., now and always."
("Gazelle" was ostensibly a silly play on my friend's name, but, doubtless, Doe's sleek figure and brown eyes, which had made the name of "The Grey Doe" so appropriate, inspired Monty to style him "Gazelle.")
"C. of E.," muttered I, audibly. "What a relief!"
"You beastly, little, supercilious snob!" exclaimed Monty, who was easily the rudest man I have ever met.