“Ah—well—that is—— Now, what would you call profane?” asked Frothingham in his driest drawl. “Damn, and devil, and that sort?”
“I should call them profane in a woman, and worse. I should call them vulgar.”
“Really!”
“Shouldn’t you?”
“Ah, I don’t know. I don’t call things. What’s the use?”
“But you must have opinions.”
“Lots of ’em—lots of ’em—a new set every day. It’s a good idea to look at everything from all sorts of directions, don’t you think?”
“If one has no sense of responsibility. But I know you have. One of the characteristics I particularly admire in the English upper class is their sense of responsibility. I think it splendid, the way they support the Church, and so set an example to the lower classes.”
“I don’t go in for that yet—I stop in bed. It’s not expected of one until he’s head of a family. When I am, of course I’ll tuck my book under my arm and toddle away on Sunday morning to do my duty. I think it’s rather funny, don’t you? We do as we jolly please all week and then on Sunday, when there’s nothing naughty going on, anyhow, we do our duty. Cleverest thing in the British Constitution, that!”
“But you believe in your—your church, don’t you?”