“I expected that they would fall upon me with clubs for my audacity: When I sacrilegiously bandied about the words of the Testament....”
“Yes, they are beautiful words,” agreed Magnus. “But didn’t you know that all their worship of God and all their faith are nothing but sacrilege? When they term a wafer the body of Christ, while some Sixtus or Pius reigns undisturbed, and with the approval of all Catholics as the Vicar of Christ, why should not you, an American from Illinois, call yourself at least...his governor? This is not meant as sacrilege, Mr. Wondergood. These are simply allegories, highly convenient for blockheads, and you are only wasting your wrath. But when will you get down to business?”
I threw up my hands in skillfully simulated sorrow:
“I want to do something, but I know not what to do. I shall probably never get down to business until you, Magnus, agree to come to my aid.”
He frowned, at his own large, motionless, white hands and then at me:
“You are too credulous, Mr. Wondergood. This is a great fault when one has three billions. No, I am of no use to you. Our roads are far apart.”
“But, dear Magnus!...”
I expected him to strike me for this gentle dear, which I uttered in my best possible falsetto. But I ventured to continue. With all the sweetness I managed to accumulate in Rome, I looked upon the dim physiognomy of my friend and in a still gentler falsetto, I asked:
“And of what nationality are you, my dear...Signor Magnus? I suspect for some reason that you are not Italian?”
He replied calmly: