“It’s an interesting question.” Father Mahon condescended to be helpful.

“Oh, let Tom speak,” said Father O’Hara. “What language would you say, Tom?”

“Classical Greek!” said Father Conroy.

They laughed, mainly with relief – Conroy was back in form. One of the young men leaned forward, daring to act as feed to the great joker.

“On what premises, Father, would you base that conclusion?”

“On the premise that Greek is a perfect language.”

“I see,” ruminated Father Mahon and went on: “You’d agree, then, Tom, with Wordsworth’s contention that,

Not in entire forgetfulness

and not in utter nakedness

But trailing clouds of glory...”

“Nonsense,” said Father O’Hara. “Tom knows as well as I do that the kids would behave like my catechism class – in the three seconds my back is turned, they degenerate into a crowd of little cavemen.”

“Classical Greek,” said Father Conroy obstinately, “that’s what they’d speak.”

“You’re generalizing, Tom, from your own particular case. You, of course, spoke Greek as a babe-in-arms.”

“Yes,” said Father Conroy, “and look at me now, conversing with my kind in grunts and asterisks.” This time their laughter was made a little uneasy by the sharpness of his tone, the way his eyes irritably raked them.

“Grunts and asterisks,” sighed Father O’Hara peaceably. “Ah well!” He began to rise to his feet, and at the signal, the others stood up to get ready to go.

“But trailing clouds of glory...” – Father Mahon was not to be done out of his quotation – “...do we come, from God who is our home.” And then he looked around, at a loss, when no one found anything to say.

Poor Mahon! they were thinking; he always had a very heavy tread. It was left to Conroy’s ingenuity to get him out of his difficulty.

“That’s right, Peter,” said Conroy. “Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Oh, it’s true! Look what lies about us in our old age!”

“Oh, I don’t know, Tom,” Father O’Hara said; “I think you ought to take a course of liver salts.” But he stopped laughing when Father Conroy’s eyes fell on him.

“Tom!” Bat Cullen approached, opening his wallet and taking out two pound notes. “You’re the only one I haven’t got around to.”

“No, Bat.”

“What’s wrong?” Bat stared, fingers arrested.

“I don’t want it, thanks. It’s... Give it to the relatives, whoever they are.”

“But, Tom, there’s nobody.”

“Then where does that come from?”

“He had a son, I believe.”

“Tomás!”

“Is that it? I never knew till just now. Apparently, he used to send the Canon money for the old fellow.”

“To the Canon? But where from? Where is he?”

“Hold on, Tom! I can’t tell you where he is. The Canon – why don’t you go up and ask him?”

The Canon was rising to his feet, dabbing his lips genteely.