A mean, hard smile crossed Mr. Dowling’s mouth before he answered:
‘Perhaps you don’t know that my wife is the Archbishop’s niece?’
Hyacinth stared at him. For a minute or two he entirely failed to understand what Mrs. Dowling’s relationship to a great ecclesiastic had to do with the question. At last a light broke on him.
‘You mean that an editor wouldn’t print my letter because he would be afraid of offending a Roman Catholic Archbishop?’
The expression ‘Roman Catholic’ caught Mr. Dowling’s attention.
‘Are you a Protestant?’ he asked. ‘You are—a dirty Protestant—and you dare to come here into my own house, and insult me and trample on my religious convictions. I’m a Catholic and a member of the League. What do you mean, you Souper, you Sour-face, by talking to me about Irish manufactures? Get out of this house, and go to the hell that’s waiting for you!’
As Hyacinth turned to go, there flashed across his mind the recollection of Miss Goold and her friends who wrote for the Croppy.
‘There’s one paper in Ireland, anyhow,’ he said, ‘which is not afraid of your wife nor your Archbishop. I’ll write to the Croppy, and you’ll see if they won’t publish the facts.’
Mr. Dowling grinned.
‘I don’t care if they do,’ he said. ‘The priests are dead against the Croppy, and there’s hardly a man in the town reads it. Go up there now to Hely’s and try if you can buy a copy. I tell you it isn’t on sale here at all, and whatever they publish will do me no harm.’