“Good lack!” saith she, “then daft Madge is nearest perfection of us all.”
“Perhaps she is, in sober truth,” Father makes answer.
“Meseemeth,” whispers Milisent to me, “that Jack Benn is a Manichee.”
“’Tis strange,” saith Father, as in meditation, “how those old heresies shall be continually re-born under new names: nor only that, but how in the heart of every man and woman there is by nature a leaning unto some form of heresy. Here is Robin Stafford a Manichee: and Bess a Mennonite: and my Lady Stafford (if I mistake not) a Stoic: and Mynheer somewhat given to be a Cynic: and Lettice and Milisent, methinks, are by their nature Epicureans. Mistress Martin, it seemeth me, should be an Essene: and what shall we call thee, Edith?”
“Aught but a Pharisee, Father,” said I, laughing.
“Nay, thou art no Pharisee,” saith he. “But that they were a nation and not a sect, I should write thee down a Sybarite. Nell is as near a Pharisee as we have one in the chamber; yet methinketh it were to insult her to give her such a name.”
“Go on,” saith Aunt Joyce. “I’m waiting.”
“What, for thine own class?”
“Mine and thine,” saith she.
Father’s eyes did shine with fun. “Well, Joyce, to tell truth, I am somewhat puzzled to class thee: but I am disposed to put thee amongst the Brownists.”