"How modishly she dresses!"
"Look at the Duchess—what a handsome brocade!"
"That lace cost five guineas the yard, I am certain."
Then came a fresh flourishing of fans, varied by the occasional rising and courtesying of one of the ladies, as she recognized an acquaintance in the fashionable crowd. Did these women really believe themselves in the special presence of God? thought Celia. Surely they never could! There was one point of the service at which all their remarks were hushed, their fans still, and their attention concentrated. This was during the singing. Celia found that no member of the congregation thought of joining the psalmody, which was left to a choir located in the gallery. At the close of each chant, audible comments were whispered round.
"How exceeding sweet!"
"What a divine voice she hath!"
"Beautiful, that E-la!"
And when the prayers followed, the snuff-boxes and fans began figuring again.
On the whole, Celia was glad when this service was over. Even Dr. Braithwaite was better than this. And then she thought of her friends at Ashcliffe, and how they would be rumbling home in the old family-coach, as she stepped in her loneliness into the Consul's splendid carriage. Did they miss her, she wondered, and were they thinking of her then, while her heart was dwelling sadly and longingly upon them? She doubted not that they did both.
"Et bien?" said Lady Ingram, interrogatively, when she met Celia after dinner. "Did you like your great preacher?"