“Lead, kindly light, amid the encircling gloom.
Lead thou me on....”
“Ah!” Dr. Willard repeated his smile. “The members of the music committee are having their innings.”
“Their innings, doctor?”
“They are holding try-outs for a new soprano. I expect they’ll have difficulty finding one to suit. You like that floating quality? It is sort of seraphic. But, dear me, there are so many requirements other than the voice to fill this position, which is probably the highest-paid for a church soloist in Greater New York. The committee has heard this young woman several times and all agree with me except Deacon Brill. He’s the only thorn in my flesh on the board.”
“He does seem to feel a natural antipathy toward you,” Dolores sympathized.
“Very natural.” Again that peculiarly indulgent smile. “As he is the central pillar of the church, I try not to collide with him. You see, he has taken this singer—a good-looking girl in addition to her vocal charms—out to dinner. He says she won’t do.”
“Won’t do—and because he took her out to dinner?”
Before Dr. Willard could explain, his private telephone rang.
“You at last, my child!” he answered close to the mouthpiece. “So, he’s broken out again? I am disappointed.... These attacks must be curbed in some way.... Always here when you need my advice.... Hum-m.... The sooner the better.”