“Of course, silly! That’s the fun of it. Saint Acetum is forever repairing ‘ze roof of ze Heaven’; and there he is up there all alone, patching and patching, and always looking for trouble; and he won’t ever come down and have a good time with the angels—not even once! It might rain, you see. And Bardek says, that’s just like you, Allen Blynn—”
“Isn’t Bardek a wonder!” His eyes glowed with delight in the Bohemian’s comic fantasy. “And isn’t that just like him!... The Vinegar Saint!... Well!...” A strong flash of determination came into his face suddenly. “And he is quite right!... Someone must keep watch lest the Heavens fall! And they might fall, you know,” he added whimsically. “You believe that God is good, and all-wise, and all-powerful, don’t you?”
She nodded. “One must,” she said. “It would be terrible not to.”
“He is good, and wise; but perhaps not all-wise. And sometimes I think He is not all-powerful. The Old One has won some of the battles—in Eden, for instance. Sometimes I fancy—it is an ancient belief—that the long battle between Good and Evil, begun aeons ago in chaos, is still at its height, and that the outcome might even be in doubt; and then I fancy that He needs us—some of us—on the firing line; or, like your Vinegar Saint, guarding the outposts. Perhaps we are sometimes a brake on progress, but often we are the ones who save liberty from liberty’s self. You know, we Allens were Tories in the Revolution; we were for the existing order then, and against the revolutionists. There must be a drop or two of reactionary blood still in me!... Vinegar Saint! Good! But don’t think that the poor old chap loves the endless patching, or that the songs of the angels don’t tempt him mightily to shirk his job.... And if he gets to looking too fierce and vinegary, it’s because—”
“It’s because he is a dear old honest capitaine,” she cried; “and I’d rather have him vinegary any day than—”
“Peppery?” he joked, determined not to be solemn.
“Yes, or even sugary. Ugh!” she affected a delightful shudder. “How I hate the sweety ones!”
This was a pleasing savor to the Vinegar Saint, and for a moment or two he forgot his patchings, and reveled in the unsaintly joy of flattery; then he remembered abruptly.
“What are you going to do about Leopold?” he asked.
“It depends upon you, mon capitaine,” she replied calmly. “If you don’t want me, Allen Blynn—anybody can have me. There! It’s out! I’ve made up my mind to say this to you for almost a year. Let me—”