"We would like to see Jonah," entreated Dicky.
"Well," said Brother Demetrius crossly, "you go thee him—you catch up. I will no more. You do not like my Englis' very well. You go with fat old joke-fellow, and I return the houth. Bethide, it ith the day of my lumbago." And the venerable Demetrius, with distinct temper, turned his back on us and waddled off.
We looked at each other in consternation.
"I'm afraid we've hurt his feelings," said Dicky.
"You must go after him, Mr. Dod, and apologize," commanded Mrs. Portheris.
"Do you suppose he knows the way out?" I asked.
"It is a shame," said Dicky. "I'll go and tell him we'd rather have him than Jonah any day."
Brother Demetrius was just turning a corner. Darkness encompassed him, lying thick between us. He looked, in the light of his candle, like something of Rembrandt's suspended for a moment before us. Dicky started after him, and, presently, Mrs. Portheris and I were regarding each other with more friendliness than I would have believed possible across our flaring dips in the silence of the Catacombs.
"Poor old gentleman," I said; "I hope Mr. Dod will overtake him."
"So do I, indeed," said Mrs. Portheris. "I fear we have been very inconsiderate. But young people are always so impatient," she added, and put the blame where it belonged.