"She doesn't make herself so, whatever we may do. I'll tell you what, Julia, if people profess to be religious, they ought, in sheer common sense, to recommend their religion by being civil and pleasant, to say the least. I've no patience with this sort of nonsense—setting up for being a saint, and making everybody wretched with her airs and tempers. And, what's more, I don't believe in it. If religion itself isn't humbug—and I have sense enough to know it is not—then Hermione is a humbug. That's the long and short of the matter, and I believe I shall end by telling her so one day."
A red spot rose to either cheek as Mrs. Trevor burst into these unwonted utterances.
Julia gazed with astonished eyes. "Why, Francesca!" she said.
"Oh, you don't know—you don't understand half. You never see what is before your eyes. I know exactly what it all means, and how we are looked upon here. It's a case of angelic sweetness oppressed by hardhearted relatives! Want of home-sympathy, and all the rest of it! I wonder how long you expect it to be before you get beyond a distant acquaintance with all the people round about?"
"But you don't suppose—"
"My dear, I suppose nothing. I know only that Hermione acts her part consistently and cleverly. She doesn't count it to be acting, of course. Nobody does, except my naughty self. It is genuine depression, broken-heartedness, et cetera."
"I wish you would not sneer at everything and everybody," Julia said, standing up. "I shall go for a walk."
She went alone, for Mrs. Trevor did not offer to accompany her. There had been a shower, and Mrs. Trevor objected to country mud.
A solitary ramble was not ill-suited to Julia's taste. She liked time for thought, and there was a good deal to think about just now in her life.
Francesca's words rankled considerably. Could there be truth in them? Was Hermione unreal?