"Walking under the moon," said Father Tom, "with their arms round each other's waists, sitting for hours saying stupid things to each other—that isn't my idea of poetry. The Irish find poetry in other things except sex."
"Mankind," said Father John, "is the same all the world over. The Irish are not different from other races; do not think it. Woman represents all the poetry that the ordinary man is capable of appreciating."
"And what about ourselves?"
"We are different. We have put this interest aside. I have never regretted it, and you have not regretted it either."
"Celibacy has never been a trouble to me."
"But, Tom, your own temperament should not prevent you from sympathy with others. You are not the whole of human nature; you should try to get a little outside yourself."
"Can one ever do this?" said Father Tom.
"Well, you see what a difficulty your narrow-mindedness has brought you into."
"I know all that," said Father Tom. "It is no use insisting upon it. Now will you come with me? They must be married this morning. Will you come with me? I want you to talk to them. You are kinder than I am. You sympathise with them more than I do, and it wasn't you who refused to marry them."
Father John got out of his arm-chair and staggered about the room on his short fat legs, trying to find his hat. Father Tom said:—