“What’s your name?” she asked.

The boy told her.

“What’s yours?” he ventured, still under the charm.

“Alison.”

He had never heard of that name, and said so.  They deplored the lack of wind.  And presently, still mystified, but gathering courage, he asked her why she blushed, at which her colour deepened.

“I can’t help it,” she told him.

“I like it,” the boy said.

Though the grass was still wet, she got down on her knees in her white skirt, the better to push the boat along the shore:  once it drifted beyond their reach, and was only rescued by a fallen branch discovered with difficulty.

The arrival of the boy’s father, an anaemic-looking little man, put an end to their play.  He deplored the condition of the lady’s dress.

“It doesn’t matter in the least,” she assured him, and fled in a mood she did not attempt to analyze.  Hurrying homeward, she regained her room, bathed, and at half past eight appeared in the big, formal dining-room, from which the glare of the morning light was carefully screened.  Her father insisted on breakfasting here; and she found him now seated before the white table-cloth, reading a newspaper.  He glanced up at her critically.

“So you’ve decided to honour me this morning,” he said.

“I’ve been out in the Park,” she replied, taking the chair opposite him.  He resumed his reading, but presently, as she was pouring out the coffee, he lowered the paper again.

“What’s the occasion to-day?” he asked.

“The occasion?” she repeated, without acknowledging that she had instantly grasped his implication.  His eyes were on her gown.

“You are not accustomed, as a rule, to pay much deference to Sunday.”

“Doesn’t the Bible say, somewhere,” she inquired, “that the Sabbath was made for man?  Perhaps that may be broadened after a while, to include woman.”

“But you have never been an advocate, so far as I know, of women taking advantage of their opportunity by going to Church.”

“What’s the use,” demanded Alison, “of the thousands of working women spending the best part of the day in the ordinary church, when their feet and hands and heads are aching?  Unless some fire is kindled in their souls, it is hopeless for them to try to obtain any benefit from religion—­so-called—­as it is preached to them in most churches.”

“Fire in their souls!” exclaimed the banker.

“Yes.  If the churches offered those who might be leaders among their fellows a practical solution of existence, kindled their self-respect, replaced a life of drudgery by one of inspiration—­that would be worth while.  But you will never get such a condition as that unless your pulpits are filled by personalities, instead of puppets who are all cast in one mould, and who profess to be there by divine right.”

“I am glad to see at least that you are taking an interest in religious matters,” her father observed, meaningly.