"Young man," said Father Michael, "thank you for your information, but I can manage my own business. What's this you were saying?" he cried, turning to the Master of Conferences.
"What mistakes might a priest make with his hands during celebration?"
"What mistakes? Well, he might put them in his pocket or behind his back, or—"
"Never mind, never mind. One question more. If you wore a pileolus, zucchetto, you know, at what part of the Mass would you remove it?"
"I wouldn't wear anything of the kind," said Father Michael; "the five vestments are enough for me, without any new-fangled things from Valladolid or Salamanca."
The chairman had graduated at Salamanca.
"My Lord," I interposed charitably, "I don't want to interfere with this interesting examination, but my sense of classical perfection and propriety is offended by this word in the syllabus of to-day's Conference. There is no such word in the Latin language as 'Primigeniis,'—'De Primigeniis textibus Sacræ Scripturæ—'"
"Now, Father Dan, this won't do," shouted the chairman. "I see what you're up to. There must be no interruptions here. Very good, Father Michael, very good indeed! Now, we'll take another. Father Dan, if you interrupt again, I'll put you into the hat. Well, number eighteen! Let me see. Ah, yes. Father Irwin!"
Poor Father Michael looked unhappy and discomfited. It is a funny paradox that that good and holy priest, who, his parishioners declared, "said Mass like an angel," so that not one of his congregation could read a line of their prayer-books, so absorbed were they in watching him, couldn't explain in totidem verbis the Rubrics he was daily and accurately practising.
Which, perhaps, exemplifies a maxim of the Chinese philosopher:—