“Penny,” she said after an interval.

Lewisham started and looked up. “Eh?”

“Why were you looking so miserable?” she asked.

“Was I looking miserable?”

“Yes.  And cross!”

“I was thinking just then that I would like to boil a bishop or so in oil.”

“My dear!”

“They know perfectly well the case against what they teach, they know it’s neither madness nor wickedness nor any great harm, to others not to believe, they know perfectly well that a man may be as honest as the day, and right—­right and decent in every way—­and not believe in what they teach.  And they know that it only wants the edge off a man’s honour, for him to profess anything in the way of belief.  Just anything.  And they won’t say so.  I suppose they want the edge off every man’s honour.  If a man is well off they will truckle to him no end, though he laughs at all their teaching.  They’ll take gold plate from company promoters and rent from insanitary houses.  But if a man is poor and doesn’t profess to believe in what some of them scarcely believe themselves, they wouldn’t lift a finger to help him against the ignorance of their followers.  Your stepfather was right enough there.  They know what’s going on.  They know that it means lying and humbug for any number of people, and they don’t care.  Why should they? They’ve got it down all right.  They’re spoilt, and why shouldn’t we be?”

Lewisham having selected the bishops as scapegoats for his turpitude, was inclined to ascribe even the nail in his boot to their agency.

Mrs. Lewisham looked puzzled.  She realised his drift.

“You’re not,” she said, and dropped her voice, “an infidel?”

Lewisham nodded gloomily.  “Aren’t you?” he said.

“Oh no,” said Mrs. Lewisham.

“But you don’t go to church, you don’t—­”

“No, I don’t,” said Mrs. Lewisham; and then with more assurance, “But I’m not an infidel.”

“Christian?”

“I suppose so.”

“But a Christian—­What do you believe?”

“Oh! to tell the truth, and do right, and not hurt or injure people and all that.”

“That’s not a Christian.  A Christian is one who believes.”

“It’s what I mean by a Christian,” said Mrs. Lewisham.

“Oh! at that rate anyone’s a Christian,” said Lewisham.  “We all think it’s right to do right and wrong to do wrong.”

“But we don’t all do it,” said Mrs. Lewisham, taking up the cornflowers again.

“No,” said Lewisham, a little taken aback by the feminine method of discussion.  “We don’t all do it—­certainly.”  He stared at her for a moment—­her head was a little on one side and her eyes on the cornflower—­and his mind was full of a strange discovery.  He seemed on the verge of speaking, and turned to his note-book again.

Very soon the centre of the table-cloth resumed its sway.