The fat priest looked up from his breviary and smiled in friendly
fashion.

"I heard you speak English to that person," he began, with hardly a
trace of foreign accent. "You will pardon me. I see you are unwell. May
I get you a lemon? Or perhaps a glass of cognac?"

"I am feeling better, thank you. It must have been the sight of those
poor people that upset me. They seem to suffer horribly. I suppose I
have got used to it."

"They do suffer. And they get used to it too. I often wonder whether
they are as susceptible to pain and discomfort as the rich with their
finer nervous structure. Who can say? Animals also have their
sufferings, but they are not encouraged to tell us about them. Perhaps
that is why God made them dumb. Zola, in one of his novels, speaks of a
sea-sick donkey."

"Dear me!" said Mr. Heard. It was an old-fashioned trick he had got
from his mother. "Dear me!"

He wondered what this youthful ecclesiastic was doing with Zola. In
fact, he was slightly shocked. But he never allowed such a state of
affairs to be noticed.

"You like Zola?" he queried.

"Not much. He is rather a dirty dog, and his technique is so
ridiculously transparent. But one can't help respecting the man. If I
were to read this class of literature for my own amusement I would