"Well, I don't know. Perhaps it's our not being used to her after so many years."
"You may be right, Alf. But she talked real sensibly to me yesterday. We had quite a long talk in the afternoon, while you and Hilda were out after berries. She seems real sensible, Alf. Of course she does say things—"
"Yes, she makes remarks, Anna, that I could rather prefer our girls not to hear."
"You mean like what she said at dinner about the natives of Tahulamaji?"
"Yes—things like that." And then he confessed with a nervous little gesture: "I can't seem to figure out where Marjory stands any more. She talks with a freedom.... Anna, I don't think I ever heard any one talk just the way Marjory does."
"You mean—about religion, Alf?"
"Well," he resumed, "it may be her way. But I can't say I ever knew a woman to talk like that. I think Marjory's very good-hearted. She no doubt means the best in the world. But somehow...." He turned toward his mate, poising the razor in the air. He looked, without of course suspecting it, almost terrible. But he went on with merely the same inflection of nervous timidity: "Anna, there are times when I suspect she doesn't believe the way we do any more."
"Oh, Alf—do you mean—is it as though she'd gone into some other church?"