“Probably,” said Conolly.
“I do not think you should play so much on Sunday,” said Marian.
“I know. [Marian winced.] Well, if the neighbors will either melt down the church bells they jangle so horribly within fifteen yards or so of my unfortunate ears, or else hang them up two hundred feet high in a beautiful tower where they would sound angelic, as they do at Utrecht, then perhaps I will stop the organ to listen to them. Until then, I will take the liberty of celebrating the day of rest with such devices as the religious folk cannot forbid me.”
“Pray do not begin to talk about religion, Ned.”
“My way of thinking is too robust for Marian, Miss McQuinch. I admit that it does not, at first sight, seem pretty or sentimental. But I do not know how even Marian can prefer the church bells to Bach.”
“What do you mean by ‘even Marian’?” said Elinor, sharply.
“I should have said, ‘Marian, who is tolerant and kind to everybody and everything.’ I hope you have forgiven me for carrying her off from you, Miss McQuinch. You are adopting an ominous tone toward me. I fear she has been telling you of our quarrels, and my many domestic shortcomings.”
“No,” said Elinor. “As far as I can judge from her account, you are a monotonously amiable husband.”
“Indeed! Hm! Would you like your coffee out here?”
“Yes.”