He wanted more tea, and biscuits too. “I won’t dispute it,” he said. “I won’t dispute it any more. Your congregation have superstitions that would disgrace Sicilian peasants.” “But I am afraid,” Father Angwin said, “that if you take away the statues, and next the Latin, next the feast days, the fast days, the vestments—” “I said nothing about this, did I?” “I can see the future. They won’t come any more. Why should they? Why should they come to church? They might as well be out in the street.” “We are not here for frills and baubles, Father,” said the bishop. “We are not here for fripperies. We are here for Christian witness.” “Rubbish,” Father said. “These people aren’t Christians. These people are heathens and Catholics.” When Agnes Dempsey came in with the Nice biscuits she could see that Father Angwin was in a poor state, quivering and sweating and passing his hand over his forehead. She hung about in the corridor, to catch what she could.
