He scented battle; realized that he was to be landed in a heart-to-heart talk on the plain issues of religion: a thing he feared, disliked and shirked. (He was a member of the Church of England.)
"Oh, very much, very much, thank you." A trifle evasively.
"Wull, what particular testimony helped you most? Whose utterance did you find of most value?"
"Oh—er—they were all very sincere."
"But you found no special message? For instance, Brother Briggs?"
"Brother Briggs? Let me see, which was he?"
"The one over to the right who spoke last."
"Oh, that odd little man in the corner! His accent was a little difficult in places: I've been away from Devonshire so long that I'm afraid here and there I didn't quite follow what he said."
There was no intention of sarcasm; he realized the dangers too well. But a certain "superiority" of manner—half-amused, half-irritated, and altogether natural—enraged her.
There was a moment's dead silence. The storm broke tempestuously. She was at the head of the table; the Stranger was sitting on her right. She leaned across the intervening corner, banged the table with her knife-encircling right fist, and howled into his face, with a withering contempt it is impossible to convey, this one phrase: "'E's got what you ain't got!"