But there now remained in question a trifling sum of money which a Mr. Liar loudly demanded in payment of an “affair of honour.”  This, however, he seemed little likely to obtain, seeing that an elderly uncle by marriage of Christian’s, whose name was Office, was as eager and affable and frank about the sum as he was bent on keeping it; and rattled the contents of his breeches’ pocket in sheer bravado of his means to go to law for it.

“He left a bare pittance, the merest pittance,” he said.  “What could there be of any account?  Christian despised money, professed to despise it.  That alone would prove my wretched nephew queer in the head—­despised money!

“Tush, friend!” cried Obstinate from his corner.  “Whether the money is yours, or neighbour Liar’s—­and it is as likely as not neither’s—­that talk about despising money’s what but a silly lie?  ’Twas all sour grapes—­sour grapes.  He had cunning enough for envy, and pride enough for shame; and at last there was naught but cunning left wherewith to patch up a clout for him and his shame to be gone in.  I watched him set out on his pestilent pilgrimage, crazed and stubborn, and not a groat to call his own.”

“Yet I have heard say he came of a moneyed stock,” said Pliable.  “The Sects of Privy Opinion were rare wealthy people, and they, so ’tis said, were his kinsmen.  Truth is, for aught I know, Christian must have been in some degree a very liberal rascal, with all his faults.”  He tittered.

“Oh! he was liberal enough,” said Mr. Malice suavely:  “why, even on setting out, he emptied his wife’s purse into a blind beggar’s hat!—­his that used to bleat, ’Cast thy bread—­cast thy bread upon the waters!’ whensoever he spied Christian stepping along the street.  They say,” he added, burying his clever face in his mug, “the Heavenly Jerusalem lieth down by the weir.”

“But we must not contemn a man for his poverty, neighbours,” said Liar, gravely composing his hairless face.  “Christian’s was a character of beautiful simplicity—­beautiful! How many rickety children did he leave behind him?”

A shrill voice called somewhat I could not quite distinguish, for at that moment a youth rose abruptly near by, and went hastily out.

Obstinate stared roundly.  “Thou hast a piercing voice, friend Liar!”

“I did but seek the truth,” said Liar.

“But whether or no, Christian believed in it—­verily he seemed to believe in it.  Was it not so, neighbour Obstinate?” enquired Pliable, stroking his leg.

“Believed in what, my friend?” said Obstinate, in a dull voice.

“About Mount Zion, and the Crowns of Glory, and the Harps of Gold, and such like,” said Pliable uneasily—­“at least, it is said so; so ’tis said.”

“Believed!” retorted a smooth young man who seemed to feel the heat, and sat by the staircase door.  “That’s an easy task—­to believe, sir.  Ask any pretty minikin!”