Poor Theodore! at these words he got up and walked to the fire.
"Well, we shan't quarrel about that," said I. Theodore turned round, staring.
"Do you mean that you agree with me?" the old man asked.
"I certainly haven't come here to talk theology. Dear me, Mr. Sloane," I said, "don't ask me to disbelieve, and I'll never ask you to believe."
"Come," cried Mr. Sloane, rubbing his hands, "you'll not persuade me you're a Christian—like your friend Theodore there."
"Like Theodore—assuredly not." And then, somehow, I don't know why, at the thought of Theodore's Christianism, I burst into a laugh. "Excuse me, my dear fellow," I said, "you know, for the last ten years I have lived in Catholic countries."
"Good, good, good!" cried Mr. Sloane, rubbing his hands and clapping them together, and laughing with high relish.
"Dear me," said Theodore, smiling, but vaguely apprehensive, too—and a little touched, perhaps, by my involuntary reflection upon the quality of his faith, "I hope you're not a Roman Catholic."
I saw the old man, with his hands locked, eyeing me shrewdly, and waiting for my answer. I pondered a moment in mock gravity. "I shall make my
