If Ortus' faith had not already been hewn away by the vagaries of his existence, he might find himself in the grip of crisis in this instance, watching with dull diffidence as the Saint traces the air languidly with the glowing tip of his cigarette.

But he has not believed that God was kind since he was but a child, and he has known it since he was seventeen. That his Saint is a lech is, at least, superior to several alternatives.

"I defer to your wisdom, Holy Saint," he says, with a formal bow of his head, mouth this time not so stiff, "I would not think to gainsay your experience in such matters."

It is possible his tone implies that such experience may encompass a breadth and depth of knowledge that would put the poets of the Sixth House to shame, delivered in the arch shaping of vowels and the mildest quirking of his brow. He is half Eighth; he knows his way about such things.

"I would imagine that any such one would prefer, however, that my domicile not contain so many gaps between its boards."