THE WISDOM OF FATHER BROWN
"I wasn't thinking of Dreyfus," said Father Brown.
Silence had sunk around them with the emptying of the tables; it was already late, though the sunlight still clung to everything, as if accidentally entangled in the trees. In the stillness Flambeau shifted his seat sharply, making an isolated and echoing noise, and threw his elbow over the angle of it. "Well," he said, rather harshly, "if Hirsch is not better than a timid treason-monger …"
"You mustn't be too hard on them," said Father Brown, gently. "It's not entirely their fault; but they have no instincts. I mean those things that make a woman refuse to dance with a man or a man to touch an investment. They've been taught that it's all a matter of degree."
"Anyhow," cried Flambeau impatiently, "he's not a patch on my principal; and I shall go through with it. Old Dubosc may be a bit mad, but he's a sort of patriot after all."
Father Brown continued to consume whitebait.
Something in the solid way he did so caused Flambeau's fierce black eyes to ramble over his companion afresh. "What's the matter with you?" Flambeau demanded. "Dubosc's all right in that way. You don't doubt him?"
"My friend," said the small priest, laying down his knife and fork in a kind of cold despair. "I doubt everything. Everything, I mean, that
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