“I think he’s a funny sort of parson altogether,”—­said Cicely meditatively—­“He doesn’t beg, borrow or steal,—­he isn’t a toady, he isn’t a hypocrite, and he speaks his mind.  Queer, isn’t it?”

“Very!” laughed Lord Charlemont—­“I don’t know another like him, give you my word!”

“Well, he can’t preach,”—­said Lady Beaulyon, decisively—­“I never heard quite such a stupid sermon.”

All the members of the house-party glanced at one another to see if this verdict were generally endorsed.  Apparently some differed in opinion.

“Didn’t you like it, Eva?” asked Maryllia.

“My dear child!  Who could like it!  Such transcendental stuff!  And all that nonsense about the Soul!  In these scientific days too!”

“Ah science, science!” sighed Mr. Bludlip Courtenay, dropping his monocle with a sharp click against his top waistcoat button—­“Where will it end?”

Nobody volunteered a reply to this profound proposition.

“‘Souls’ are noted for something else than being saved for heaven nowadays, aren’t they, Lady Beaulyon?” queried Lord Charlemont, with a knowing smile.

Lady Beaulyon’s small, rather hard mouth tightened into a thin line.

“I really don’t know!”—­she said carelessly—­“If you mean the social ‘Souls,’ they are rather unconventional certainly, and not always discreet.  But they are generally interesting—­much more so, I should think, than such ‘Souls’ as the parson preached about just now.”

“Indeed, yes!” agreed Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay—­“I can imagine nothing more tiresome than to be a Soul without a Body, climbing from height to height of a heaven where there is no night, no sleep, no rest for ever and ever.  Simply dreadful!  But there!—­one only goes to church for form’s sake—­just as an example to one’s servants—­and when it’s done, don’t you think it’s best to forget it as soon as possible?”

She raised her baby eyes appealingly as she put the question.

Everybody laughed, or rather sniggered.  Real honest laughter is not considered ‘good form’ by certain sections of society.  A gentle imitation of the nanny-goat’s bleat is the most seemly way for cultured persons to give vent to the expression of mirth.  Maryllia alone was grave and preoccupied.  The conversation of her guests annoyed her, though in London she had been quite well accustomed to hear people talk lightly and callously of religion and all religious subjects.  Yet here, in the quiet country, things were different, somehow.  God seemed nearer,—­it was more difficult to blaspheme and ignore Him.  And there was a greater sense of regret and humiliation in one’s self for one’s own lack of faith.  Though, at the same time, it has to be reluctantly conceded that in no quarter of the world is religious hypocrisy and sham so openly manifested as in the English provinces, and especially in the small towns, where, notwithstanding the fact that all the Sundays are passed in persistent church and chapel going, the result of this strenuous sham piety is seen in the most unchristian back-biting and mischief-making on every week-day.