“Oh, impossible—­in this country!”

“Yes, imagine it!  Perhaps she saw my disapproval for she added, ’We had a prayer-book in the house, though.’  As if it were quite the same thing.”

One of the more optimistic members of the chorus thought that this might show some connection with the Church of England.  But Mrs. Pennington shook her head.

“Hardly, I think.  Her language was not such as to encourage such a hope.  The very next thing she said to me was, ’Don’t you think the prayer-book is lovely?’”

“Oh!—­not really?”

“I admit I was shocked.  I am not,” said Mrs. Pennington, “a Church of England woman.  But I am broad-minded, I hope.  And I have more respect for any sacred work than to speak of it as ‘lovely.’  In fact, in all kindness, I must say that I fear the poor child is a veritable heathen.”

This conclusion was felt to be sound, logically, but without great practical significance.  The veritable heathen persisted in church-going to such an extent that she tired out several of the most orthodox and it was rumored that she even went so far as to discuss the sermon afterward.  “Just as if,” said Mrs. Pennington, “it were a lecture or a play or something.”

As a matter of fact, Desire was intensely interested in sermons.  She had so seldom heard any that the weekly doling out of truth by the Rev. Mr. McClintock had all the fascination of a new experience.  Mr. McClintock was of the type which does not falter in its message.  He had no doubts.  He had thought out every possible spiritual problem as a young man and had seen no reason for thinking them out a second time.  What he had accepted at twenty, he believed at sixty, with this difference that while at twenty some of his conclusions had caused him sleepless nights, at sixty they were accepted with complacency.  No questioning pierced the hard enamel of his assurance.  He saw no second side to anything because he never turned it over.  He had a way of saying “I believe” which was absolutely final.

Desire had been collecting Mr. McClintock’s beliefs carefully.  They fascinated her.  She often woke up in the night thinking of them, wondering at their strange diversity and speculating as to the ultimate discovery of some missing piece which might make them all fit in.  It was because she was afraid of missing this master-bit that she went to church so regularly.

The Sunday after the reception was exceptionally hot.  It was exceptionally dusty too, for Bainbridge tolerated no water carts on Sunday.  It was one of those Sundays when people have headaches.  Aunt Caroline had a head-ache.  She felt that it would be most unwise to venture out.  She even suggested that, no doubt, Desire had a headache, too.

“But I haven’t,” said that downright young person, looking provokingly cool and energetic.  Her husband groaned.

“Don’t look at me,” he said hastily.  “My excuse is not hallowed by antiquity like Aunt’s but it is equally effective.  I have to go down to the cellar to make ice-cream.”