"They count for nothing in the parish. They just come to church, when they get up in season; that's about all. Of course, it would be a good thing if they did count for more. The poor old church is in need of something young and lively; now and then it seems to me to be fairly doddering. Poor Scott feels it, too. He can't help it. Every man and woman in the congregation was born, ready made, with a whole set of prejudices, born in a rut that nothing can break down. I tell him—"
Once more Olive interrupted. Indeed, it was her only method of driving in an entering wedge of speech.
"That is what we old New Englanders love, Mrs. Brenton," she said, with a sweetness that was almost acid. "Remember that we and our ancestors have lived in these same houses since King George the Third's day, and then you will forgive us for some of our ready-made prejudices."
Kathryn glanced up suspiciously. Then she sought to flay her guest with all discretion.
"Really? How very tiresome you must have found it!" she made answer.
"Not at all. It's the other thing that we find so tiresome," Olive assured her, not without some malice.
"Where did you see Mr. Brenton?" Kathryn asked her quite abruptly.
"He was going to call on Mr. Opdyke."
"Reed, or the professor?"
This time, Olive's accent was not to be mistaken.