"I should like to know something more about these people, Philip. What doctrines do they hold?"
"Now, what a remarkable attraction anything wrong and perilous has for a woman!" observed Mr. Philip Ingram, with the air of a philosopher. "Well, my dear, I have only heard one; but I believe they have a sort of confession or creed, indicating the points whereon they differ from the Church. That one is, that there is no such thing as grace of congruity, and that men are saved by the favor of God only, and by no merit of their own."
"But, Philip, that is the Gospel!" exclaimed Celia, turning round to look at him. "That is what we Protestants believe."
"Is it, my dear? Well, I have no objection. (Now, return to your condition of a statue, or you will have a lecture on awkwardness and want of repose in your manners. Oh! I know all about that. Do you think I was born such a finished courtier as you see me?) As to merit, I have lived long enough to find out one thing, and that is, that people who are always talking of merit are generally least particular about acquiring it, while those who believe that their good deeds are worth nothing, have the largest stock of them."
"That is natural," said Celia, thoughtfully.
"Is it?" asked Philip again. "Well, it looks like the rule of contrary to me. But you see I have no vocation. Now look at the lady who stands on my mother's left—the one in primrose. Do you see her?
"I see her," said Celia. "I like her face better than some of the others. Who is she?"
"The Marchioness de Simiane,[[2]] daughter of the Countess de Grignan, and granddaughter of the late clever Marchioness de Sévigné. Her flatterers call her an angel. She is not that, but I don't think she is quite so near the other set of ethereal essences as a good many of the people in this room."
"What an opinion you have of your friends, Philip!"
"My friends, are they?" responded Philip, with a little laugh. "How many of them do you suppose would shed tears at my funeral? There is not one of them who has a heart, my dear—merely lumps of painted stone, as I told you. These are not men and women—they are only walking statues."