“The Cyril Baptiste,” he answered, in a low, even, passionate voice, that he flung at her almost like a blow. “The atheist, the gaol bird, the pariah, the blasphemer, the anti-Christ. I’ve hoofs instead of feet. Shall I take off my boots and show them to you? I tuck my tail inside my coat. You can’t see my horns. I’ve cut them off close to my head. That’s why I wear my hair long: to hide the stumps.”
Mary had been searching in the pockets of his cloak. She had found a paper bag. “You mustn’t get excited,” she said, laying her little work-worn hand upon his shoulder; “or you’ll bring on the bleeding.”
“Aye,” he answered, “I must be careful I don’t die on Christmas Day. It would make a fine text, that, for their sermons.”
He lapsed into silence: his almost transparent hands stretched out towards the fire.
Mr. Simson fidgeted. The quiet of the room, broken only by Mary’s ministering activities, evidently oppressed him.
“Paper going well, sir?” he asked. “I often read it myself.”
“It still sells,” answered the proprietor, and editor and publisher, and entire staff of The Rationalist.
“I like the articles you are writing on the History of Superstition. Quite illuminating,” remarked Mr. Simson.
“It’s many a year, I am afraid, to the final chapter,” thought their author.
“They afford much food for reflection,” thought Mr. Simson, “though I cannot myself go as far as you do in including Christianity under that heading.”