Mrs. Satterthwaite said:
"Have a cup of tea, Father, while it's just right. I believe Sylvia is the only person in Germany who knows how to make tea."
"There's always behind him the Roman collar and the silk bib, and you don't believe in him," Father Consett went on, "yet he knows ten—a thousand times!—more of human nature than ever you can."
"I don't see," Sylvia said placably, "how you can learn in your slums anything about the nature of Eunice Vanderdecken, or Elizabeth B. or Queenie James, or any of my set." She was on her feet pouring cream into the Father's tea. "I'll admit for the moment that you aren't giving me pi-jaw."
"I'm glad," the priest said, "that ye remember enough of yer schooldays to use the old term."
Sylvia wavered backwards to her sofa and sank down again.
"There you are," she said, "you can't really get away from preachments. Me for the pyore young girl is always at the back of it."
"It isn't," the Father said. "I'm not one to cry for the moon."
"You don't want me to be a pure young girl," Sylvia asked with lazy incredulity.
"I do not!" the Father said, "but I'd wish that at times ye'd remember you once were."