John Crawford continued to sell tickets, even to Father Fahey himself, and appeared entirely unconcerned by the fuss.
About a fortnight after the meeting Hyacinth spent a night in Clogher.
Mr.Holywell, the cigarette man, happened to be in the hotel, and, as usual, got through a good deal of desultory conversation while he drank his whisky-and-water.

Quite unexpectedly, and apropos of nothing that had been said, he plumped out the question: 'What religion are you, Conneally ?' The inquiry was such an unusual one, and came so strangely from Mr.
Holywell, who had always seemed a Gallio in matters spiritual, that Hyacinth hesitated.
'I'm a Baptist myself,' he went on, apparently with a view to palliating his inquisitiveness by a show of candour.

'I find it a very convenient sort of religion in Connaught.

There isn't a single place of worship belonging to my denomination in the whole province, so I'm always able to get my Sundays to myself.

I don't want to convert you to anything or to argue with you, but I have a fancy that you are a Church of Ireland Protestant.' Hyacinth admitted the correctness of the guess, and wondered what was coming next.
'Ever spend a Sunday here ?' 'Never,' said Hyacinth; 'I always get back home for the end of the week if I can.' 'Ah! Well, do you know, if I were you, I should spend next Sunday here, and go to Mass.' 'I shall not do anything of the sort.' 'Well, it's your own affair, of course; only I just think I should do it if I were you.