“Like other people,” repeated the priest, mechanically.
“I must send word to my housekeeper that I intend to remain here all night. And I should like our letters—I had no time to look at them.”
A messenger was despatched, and they resumed their former conversation.
“I am afraid,” said Pensée, “that poor Mr. Parflete was dreadfully wicked.”
The priest sighed, and made some remarks about the dead man's intellectual brilliancy:
“Tell me, Father, with all your experience, do you understand life?” asked Pensée, abruptly.
“Let me take refuge in a quotation—
‘Justice divine
Mends not her slowest pace for pray'rs or cries.’
I can understand that at least,” answered the priest.