"You, Philip? Good!" exclaimed Kate, heartily.
The Apostle for the first time allowed his gaze to rest on Philip. He chuckled, with the sly malice of a child that has played some trick upon an elder. "I 'lowed you'd be speakin' up purty soon," he said. "I bin talkin' at you all the time, son. Hit don't matter what kind of a preacher you be—Methody or Cam'elite, or what—jest so's you kin give 'em the Word strong."
"I'll give it to them as strong as I can," smiled Philip, "though I must confess that I share your doubts with regard to hell-fire."
"Can ye start a tune? That's what gits 'em every time."
"I can do better than that." He looked at Jacqueline.
Even as he spoke, inspiration had come to him. It was the answer to the problem of how to separate Jacqueline from Channing. "Will you come, too, and be my choir?" he asked her.
She clapped her hands. "What a lark! Mummy, may I? You know how I've always longed to go up into the mountains!"
Suddenly she paused, dismayed. She had remembered Channing.
But that gentleman rose to the occasion with promptitude, somewhat to the chagrin of Philip.
"How would you like to add a passable tenor to your choir, Benoix? If you will let me in on this missionary expedition, it would be awfully good of you. Just the opportunity I've been looking for."