The short conversation that followed always remained associated in Sylvia’s mind with Cassandra’s grunts and her large base elevated above the pews, while she browsed hither and thither, bending over to pick up the scattered chrysanthemums.
“Mr. Dorward, I want to ask you something very serious.”
He looked at her sharply, almost suspiciously.
“Does it make you very much happier to have faith?”
“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,” he said, brushing petals from his cassock.
“But would it make me?”
“I expect so—I expect so,” he said, still brushing and trying with that shy curtness to avoid the contact of reality.
“Well, how can I get faith?”
“You must pray, dear lady, you must pray.”
“You’ll have to pray for me,” Sylvia said.