He sighed heavily. They stood facing each other. It became a little formal.
"Alf, this would be a splendid chance. She's right out there on the steps!"
"Oh, well—really! Not this morning. No, not just now, when we're all keyed up about Barry. In the course of time, I daresay...."
"Oh, now, Alf," she coaxed, in a very low, throaty, persuasive contralto. "Oh, do go out there now! I'll call Hilda in for something. There's—there's some mending—ought to be done right away," she quickly added, as the suspicion hovered between them that Hilda would be called in on mere pretense.
"Anna, maybe this afternoon."
"Now! Oh, Alf—now!"
"Anna, I—"
"Yes, Alf, yes!"
And so he was gently pushed on to the porch.
Hilda and Marjory looked up. There was a barricade of mosquito netting between them and the emerged pair. Hilda was flushed. She had just been waving to some one in the water. Marjory's eyes kindled with indefinite mirth, and at this kindling the minister's heart quaked a little. There was something about his wife's sister—yes, he thoroughly admitted it now; there was something about her. She was strange and incompatible. Had she, indeed, become inclined to be atheistical in her beliefs? Was that what made him feel so uncomfortable, always, in her presence? He a man of the pulpit, it would be natural that the ungodly should fill him with distrust; natural they should make him wary and cautious. Was it that in Marjory? Was it that?