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“There’s not much difference between us,” said Mr. M’Coy.

“We both believe in—-“

He hesitated for a moment.

“… in the Redeemer. Only they don’t believe in the Pope and in the mother of God.”

“But, of course,” said Mr. Cunningham quietly and effectively, “our religion is the religion, the old, original faith.”

“Not a doubt of it,” said Mr. Kernan warmly.

Mrs. Kernan came to the door of the bedroom and announced:

“Here’s a visitor for you!”

“Who is it?”

“Mr. Fogarty.”

“O, come in! come in!”

A pale, oval face came forward into the light. The arch of its fair trailing moustache was repeated in the fair eyebrows looped above pleasantly astonished eyes. Mr. Fogarty was a modest grocer. He had failed in business in a licensed house in the city because his financial condition had constrained him to tie himself to second-class distillers and brewers. He had opened a small shop on Glasnevin Road where, he flattered himself, his manners would ingratiate him with the housewives of the district. He bore himself with a certain grace, complimented little children and spoke with a neat enunciation. He was not without culture.

Mr. Fogarty brought a gift with him, a half-pint of special whisky. He inquired politely for Mr. Kernan, placed his gift on the table and sat down with the company on equal terms. Mr. Kernan appreciated the gift all the more since he was aware that there was a small account for groceries unsettled between him and Mr. Fogarty. He said:

“I wouldn’t doubt you, old man. Open that, Jack, will you?”

Mr. Power again officiated. Glasses were rinsed and five small measures of whisky were poured out. This new influence enlivened the conversation. Mr. Fogarty, sitting on a small area of the chair, was specially interested.

“Pope Leo XIII,” said Mr. Cunningham, “was one of the lights of the age. His great idea, you know, was the union of the Latin and Greek Churches. That was the aim of his life.”

“I often heard he was one of the most intellectual men in Europe,” said Mr. Power. “I mean, apart from his being Pope.”

“So he was,” said Mr. Cunningham, “if not the most so. His motto, you know, as Pope, was Lux upon Lux–Light upon Light.”

“No, no,” said Mr. Fogarty eagerly. “I think you’re wrong there. It was Lux in Tenebris, I think–Light in Darkness.”

“O yes,” said Mr. M’Coy, “Tenebrae.”

“Allow me,” said Mr. Cunningham positively, “it was Lux upon Lux. And Pius IX his predecessor’s motto was Crux upon Crux– that is, Cross upon Cross–to show the difference between their two pontificates.”

The inference was allowed. Mr. Cunningham continued.

“Pope Leo, you know, was a great scholar and a poet.”

“He had a strong face,” said Mr. Kernan.

“Yes,” said Mr. Cunningham. “He wrote Latin poetry.”

“Is that so?” said Mr. Fogarty.

Mr. M’Coy tasted his whisky contentedly and shook his head with a double intention, saying:

“That’s no joke, I can tell you.”

“We didn’t learn that, Tom,” said Mr. Power, following Mr. M’Coy’s example, “when we went to the penny-a-week school.”

“There was many a good man went to the penny-a-week school with a sod of turf under his oxter,” said Mr. Kernan sententiously. “The old system was the best: plain honest education. None of your modern trumpery….”

“Quite right,” said Mr. Power.

“No superfluities,” said Mr. Fogarty.

He enunciated the word and then drank gravely.

“I remember reading,” said Mr. Cunningham, “that one of Pope Leo’s poems was on the invention of the photograph–in Latin, of course.”

“On the photograph!” exclaimed Mr. Kernan.

“Yes,” said Mr. Cunningham.

He also drank from his glass.

“Well, you know,” said Mr. M’Coy, “isn’t the photograph wonderful when you come to think of it?”

“O, of course,” said Mr. Power, “great minds can see things.”

“As the poet says: Great minds are very near to madness,” said Mr. Fogarty.

Mr. Kernan seemed to be troubled in mind. He made an effort to recall the Protestant theology on some thorny points and in the end addressed Mr. Cunningham.

“Tell me, Martin,” he said. “Weren’t some of the popes–of course, not our present man, or his predecessor, but some of the old popes–not exactly … you know… up to the knocker?”