" "And you want me to find a minister?" she asked, with ready comprehension. But his words were borne away by the driving wind. And I’ll have that story off you as we journey back to town. The Protestant Flagellant, who whipped his soul rather than his body, who made self-denial the rack and the boot, who believed that on Sunday it was sacrilegious to smile, blasphemous to laugh! Spurlock had gone back spiritually three hundred years. “You hear him?” he remarked, looking impressively around. Then he took me out to Monteaux, on a motor. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. ’ ‘No. Maybe it’s his loss. I am the richest man in the world.
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