“But he didn’t,” I pointed out. “One can take wills only as they are framed. Isn’t that so, Stratton?”
“Except in very exceptional cases, yes,” said George, with an heroic effort.
Mrs. Stratton became tearful and turned on her husband. “You never support me,” she complained. “You allow any one to override me. As if I didn’t know my own brother better than strangers could! His wish—more, his decision—would be that Dr. Greville should marry if he accepted the care of Rose. Of course you must marry,” she added, to me. “How old are you?—you look about thirty—every man of thirty should be married. There’s always something wrong with bachelors. We can’t allow—can we, George?—our niece to be brought up by a bachelor of thirty.”
“Many good men have been bachelors,” I said.
“Tell me one,” she replied, “and I shall be surprised.”
“Very well then,” I rejoined: “our Lord.”
“Don’t be blasphemous,” she said.
“I was merely being historical,” I explained meekly.
“You have no right to compare yourself with Him,” she said. “It all helps to confirm my worst fears. I didn’t intend to pass on to other matters connected with this deplorable affair; but that remark of yours has forced me to. Not only are you young and unmarried, but you treat sacred things with levity. I have not been prying, though you may think so—I should scorn the action—I have not been prying or asking questions, but I have learned that you are not a churchgoer. And not just because you’re a doctor either,” she added.
“It was not an excuse that I was about to make,” I replied. “I should not be a churchgoer whatever happened. It would involve suggestions of belief that I could not make and should not like to be dishonest about.”