"I belong to the clergy," said the rector softly; "it is our duty not to witness fights, but to prevent them."
"Now, I say!" remonstrated Mr. Sullivan, "you folks run around in your autos, knock down people an' frighten horses, so's they run away; you go out an' kill thousands of birds an' deer an' fish, an' all that; an' yet you're th' first t' holler when two healthy men pummel each other for a livin'. You ain't consistent. Why, th' hardest punch I ever got never pained me more'n an hour, an' I took th' fat end of th' purse at that. When you're a kid, ain't you always quarrelin' an' scrappin'? Sure. Sometimes it was with reason an' cause, an' again jus' plain love of fightin'. Well, that's me. I fight because I like it, an' because it pays. Sure. It's on'y natural for some of us t' fight all th' time; an' honest, I'm dead weary of th' way th' papers yell about th' brutal prize-fight. If I want t' get my block punched off, that's my affair; an' I don't see what business some old fussies have in interferin'."
"It isn't really the fighting, Mr. Sullivan," replied the rector, who felt compelled to defend his point of view; "it's the rough element which is always brought to the surface during these engagements. Men drink and use profane language and wager money."
"As t' that, I don't say;" and Mr. Sullivan moved his hands in a manner which explained his inability to account for the transgressions of the common race.
"What's a block?" whispered Mrs. Cathewe into Caroline's ear.
Caroline raised her eyebrows; she had almost surrendered to the first natural impulse, that of raising her hands above her head, as she had often seen her brother do when faced by an unanswerable question.
The trend of conversation veered. Mr. Sullivan declared that he would never go upon the stage, and all laughed. Occasionally the women ventured timidly to offer an observation which invariably caused Mr. Sullivan to loose an expansive grin. And when he learned that the rector was to witness the fight in the capacity of a reporter, he enjoyed the knowledge hugely.
Presently Cathewe appeared, and dinner was announced. Mr. Sullivan sat between his host and hostess. No, he would not have a cocktail nor a highball; he never drank. Mrs. Cathewe straightway marked him down as a rank impostor. Didn't prize-fighters always drink and carouse and get locked up by the police officers?
"Well, this is a new one on me," Mr. Sullivan admitted, as he tasted of his caviar and quietly dropped his fork. "May I ask what it is?"
"It's Russian caviar. It is like Russian literature; one has to cultivate a taste for it." The novelist glanced amusedly at the rector.