“How could it be otherwise, Ella, when the man wrote so horrible a book as that?”

“Horrible?  Is it horrible?  I had no idea.  I’m no judge of what is horrible in theology, or metaphysics, or whatever it is.  But I do profess to know when a man has made a hit, whether in theology or anything else; and I perceive quite clearly that your Mr. Holland—­well, not your Mr. Holland, has made a distinct hit.  What sort of face is that you’re making at me?  Oh, I see.  It’s the face of the orthodox at the mention of something not quite orthodox.  Pshut! don’t be a goose, Phyllis.”

“I don’t intend.  Have I not told you that I’m not going to marry Mr. Holland?”

“That is like one of the phrases which you give to your father, so that the people might think him clever.  Orthodox!  Who cares nowadays for what is dully orthodox?  Who ever heard of a hero in orthodoxy nowadays?  The thing is impossible.  There may be, of course, thousands of orthodox heroes, but one never hears anything of them.  The planets Jupiter and Saturn and Mercury and Mars and the rest of them come and go at their appointed seasons, and no one ever gives them a second thought, poor old respectable things! but the moment a comet appears in the sky everyone rushes out to gaze at it, and the newspapers deal with it from day to day, and the illustrated papers give its portrait.  Nothing could be more unorthodox than your comet.  Oh, Phyllis, my child, don’t talk nowadays of orthodoxy or the other—­what do they call it?—­heterodoxy.  Mr. Holland’s name will be in everyone’s mouth for the next year at least, and if his bishop or a friendly church warden prosecutes him, and the thing is worked up properly, he ought to be before the public for the next five years.”

“Oh, Ella!”

“I’m not overstating the case, I assure you, my dear.  A man was telling me about one Colenso—­he was, so far as I could gather, a first-class man at algebra and heresy and things like that.  He was Bishop of Zanzibar or Uganda or some place, and he wrote a book about Moses—­showing that Moses couldn’t have written something or other.  Well, he took a bit of prosecuting, five or six years, I believe, and he didn’t go nearly so far as Mr. Holland does in that book of his.  All this time people talked about little else but Colenso, and his books made him a fortune.  That was before our time, dear—­when the newspapers weren’t worked as they are now.  Block printing has made more heroes than the longest campaign on record.  Yes, Mr. Courtland said so two days ago.  I think I’ll try some more of that lovely cake:  it’s like warm ice, isn’t it?  Oh, you’ll not be so foolish as to throw over your Mr. Holland.”

“It is already done,” said Phyllis.  “I’m so glad that you like the cake.  It is very subtle.  What a delightful idea—­warm ice!”

“Never mind the cake.  I want to hear more of this matter of Mr. Holland,” said Ella.  “Do you mean to tell me plainly that you threw over Mr. Holland because he wrote a book that will bring him fame and fortune?”