The inquiry was such an unusual one, and came so strangely from Mr. Holywell, who had always seemed a Gallio in matters spiritual, that Hyacinth hesitated.
‘I’m a Baptist myself,’ he went on, apparently with a view to palliating his inquisitiveness by a show of candour. ‘I find it a very convenient sort of religion in Connaught. There isn’t a single place of worship belonging to my denomination in the whole province, so I’m always able to get my Sundays to myself. I don’t want to convert you to anything or to argue with you, but I have a fancy that you are a Church of Ireland Protestant.’
Hyacinth admitted the correctness of the guess, and wondered what was coming next.
‘Ever spend a Sunday here?’
‘Never,’ said Hyacinth; ‘I always get back home for the end of the week if I can.’
‘Ah! Well, do you know, if I were you, I should spend next Sunday here, and go to Mass.’
‘I shall not do anything of the sort.’
‘Well, it’s your own affair, of course; only I just think I should do it if I were you. Good-night.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Hyacinth. ‘I want to know what you mean.’
Mr. Holywell sat down again heavily.