“So much the better; and—as I was going to say—St. Paul is an embarrass—a distinctly strong colleague. Still—we all have our weaknesses. Perhaps a well-timed reference to his seamanship in the Mediterranean—by the way, look up the name of his ship, will you? Alexandria register, I think—might be useful in some of those sudden maritime cases that crop up. I needn’t tell you to be firm, of course. That’s your besetting—er—I mean—reprimand ’em severely and publicly, but—” the Saint’s voice broke—“oh, my child, you don’t know what it is to need forgiveness. Be gentle with ’em—be very gentle with ’em!”
Swiftly as a falling shaft of light the Seraph kissed the sandalled feet and was away.
“Aha!” said St. Peter. “He can’t go far wrong with that Board of Admission as I’ve—er—arranged it.”
They walked towards the great central office of Normal Civil Death, which, buried to the knees in a flood of temporary structures, resembled a closed cribbage-board among spilt dominoes.
They entered an area of avenues and cross-avenues, flanked by long, low buildings, each packed with seraphs working wing to folded wing.
“Our temporary buildings,” Death explained. “’Always being added to. This is the War-side. You’ll find nothing changed on the Normal Civil Side. They are more human than mankind.”
“It doesn’t lie in my mouth to blame them,” said St. Peter.
“No, I’ve yet to meet the soul you wouldn’t find excuse for,” said Death tenderly; “but then I don’t—er—arrange my Boards of Admission.”
“If one doesn’t help one’s Staff, one’s Staff will never help itself,” St. Peter laughed, as the shadow of the main porch of the Normal Civil Death Offices darkened above them.
“This façade rather recalls the Vatican, doesn’t it?” said the Saint.