"Who, then, was Mr.
Christian?" I enquired simply.
At that the house shook with the roar of laughter that went up.
X
... _Large draughts of intellectual day._
--RICHARD CRASHAW.
"Believe me, neighbours," said Malice softly, when this uproar was a
little abated, "there is nought so strange in the question. It meaneth
only that this young gentleman hath not enjoyed the pleasure of your
company before. Will it amaze you to learn, my friends, that Christian
is like to be immortal only because you _talk_ him out of the grave?
One brief epitaph, gentlemen, would let him rot."
"Nay, but I'll tell the gentleman who Christian was, and with
pleasure," cried a lucid, rather sallow little man that had sat
quietly smiling and listening. "My name, let me tell you, is Atheist,
sir; and Christian was formerly a very near neighbour of an old friend
of my family's--Mr. Sceptic. They lived, sir--at least in those
days--opposite to one another."
"He is a great talker," whispered Reverie in my ear. But the company
evidently found his talk to their taste. They sat as still and
attentive around him, as though before an extemporary preacher.
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