“Yes, Camelia has so many friends. She thought she would like it here if she could keep it gay with people.”
“You will like it too. You were lonely last winter.”
“Ah, Camelia was not here; but I was not lonely, Michael; you were too kind for that; and I had Mary. You don’t think Camelia looks thin, Michael?” She had always called the family friend by his Christian name. Perior had Irish ancestry. “She has been doing so much all spring—all winter too; I can’t understand how a delicate girl can press so many things into her life—and studying with it too; she must keep up with everything.”
“Ahead of everything,” Perior smiled.
“Yes, she is really so intellectual, Michael. You don’t think she looks badly?”
“She is as pretty a little pagan as ever,” said Perior, glancing at Miss Paton.
“A pagan!” Lady Paton looked rather alarmed. “You mean it, Michael? I have been troubled, but Camelia comes to church with me. It is you who are the pagan, Michael,” she added, finding the gentle retort with evident relief.
“Oh, I wasn’t speaking literally. I have no doubt that Camelia is a staunch church-woman,” he smiled to himself. Camelia was a brazen little conformist, when conformity was of service.
“No, not that. I don’t quite know. I have heard her talk of religion, with Mr. Ballenden, who writes those books, you know, scientific, atheistic books, and Camelia seemed quite to overpower him; the illusions of science, the claims of authority.” Lady Paton spoke with some little vagueness. “I did not quite follow it all; but he became very much excited. Controversial religion does not interest me, it confuses me. It is the inner change of heart, Michael,” she added with a mild glance of affection, “the reliance on the higher will that guides us, that has revealed itself to us.”
Perior looked somewhat gloomily on the ground. The thought of Lady Paton’s religion, and Camelia’s deft juggling with negatives, jarred upon him.