They talked for a while of childish days, each capping the other's evocation of those hours that now in retrospect appeared like the gay pictures of an old book long ago lost, and found again on an idle afternoon. They talked, too, of Margaret and whether she would marry Richard; and presently, without the obvious transition that would have made her silent, Pauline found that they were discussing Guy and herself.
"I notice he doesn't come to church now so much as he did," said Monica.
Pauline was startled by an abrupt statement of something which among all the other worries she had never defined to herself, but which, now that Monica revealed its shape, she knew had occupied a dark corner at the back of her mind more threatening than any of the rest. Of course she began at once to make excuses for Guy, but her sister, who brought to religion the same scrupulous temperament she gave to her music, would not admit their validity.
"Don't you ever ask him why he hasn't been?" she persisted.
"Oh, of course not. Why, I couldn't, Monica! I should never feel.... Oh no, Monica, it would really be impossible for me to talk to Guy about his faith."
"His faith seems rather to have frozen lately," said Monica.
"He's been upset and disappointed."
"All the more reason for going to church," Monica urged.
"Yes, for you, darling, or for me; but Guy may be different."
"There's no room for moods in one's religious duties. The artistic temperament is not provided for."