“I did not recognize it,” said the Professor, “as a distinctly fishing community—from the audience; no, not from that audience.”
“Not many of my drunkards, for instance, sir? Not a strong salt-fish perfume in the First Church? Nor a whiff of old New England rum anywhere?”
“The atmosphere was irreproachable,” returned the Professor with a keen look.
Bayard glanced at Helen, who had been sitting quietly on the sofa beside him. Her eyes returned his merriment.
“Father!” she exclaimed, “Mr. Bayard does not recant. He is proud of it. He glories in his heresy. He is laughing at his martyrdom—and at us. I think you’d better ‘let up’ on him awhile.”
“Let up, Helen? Let up?” complained her mother. “That is a very questionable expression. Ask your father, my dear, if it is good English. And I’m sure Mr. Bayard will be a gentlemanly heretic, whatever he is.”
Helen laughed outright, now. Bayard joined her; and the four drew breath and found themselves at their ease.
“For my part,” said Helen unexpectedly, “I should like to see Mr. Bayard’s church—if he would stoop to invite us.... I suppose,” she added thoughtfully, “one reason saints don’t stoop, is for fear the halo should tumble off. It must be so inconvenient! Don’t you ever have a stiff neck, Mr. Bayard?”
“Why, Helen!” cried Mrs. Carruth in genuine horror. She hastened to atone for her daughter’s rudeness to a young man who already had enough to bear. “I will come and bring Helen myself, Mr. Bayard, to hear you preach—that is, if you would like to have us.”
“Pray don’t!” protested Bayard. “The Professor’s hair would turn black again in a single night. It won’t do for you to recognize an outlaw like me, you know. Why, Fenton and I haven’t met since he came here; unless at the post-office. I understand my position. Don’t feel any delicacy about it. I don’t. I can’t stop for that! I am too busy.”