“He has written an opera,” said Miss Prenderghast impressively. Neither of the men could help looking a little disappointed.
“You may well be surprised,” said Miss Prenderghast with satisfaction. “I was myself perfectly unprepared for this blow. I knew he was musical and that—as I thought most unnecessarily, Monsieur le Curé—you had encouraged it by allowing him to play the organ in your church.” The Curé collapsed, the doctor looked radiant. “And you, doctor,” said Miss Prenderghast, “have not improved matters by insisting upon him attending the meetings of a disreputable orchestral society! This is the result.”
“Well, well,” said the doctor bravely, “his mother was a neurotic!”
“There are certain professions,” said the Curé mildly, “in which a knowledge of music is not altogether a misfortune. I have myself studied harmony for a fortnight during my training at the Seminary. I have never regretted it.”
“No, but your congregation has,” snapped the doctor.
“What do you suggest?” asked Miss Prenderghast.
The doctor looked at the Curé. He really had no idea in his head at all, but the Curé looked so full of his own importance and so determined on making Jean a priest that the doctor found himself saying:
“Paris!” He only meant it as a joke.
“Paris?” said Miss Prenderghast thoughtfully.
“Paris!” echoed the Curé in horror.