“Well,” said Lewisham. “Yes—I’m bound to say I do.”
“You are really not bound to say it. The modesty of inexperience would excuse you.”
“Yes, but it isn’t right—it isn’t straight.”
“Dogma,” said Chaffery. “Dogma!”
“What do you mean by dogma?” asked Lewisham.
“I mean, dogma. But we must argue this out in comfort. It is our supper hour, and I’m not the man to fight against accomplished facts. We have intermarried. There it is. You must stop to supper—and you and I must thresh these things out. We’ve involved ourselves with each other and we’ve got to make the best of it. Your wife and mine will spread the board, and we will go on talking. Why not sit in that chair instead of leaning on the back? This is a home—domus—not a debating society—humble in spite of my manifest frauds.... That’s better. And in the first place I hope—I do so hope”—Chaffery was suddenly very impressive—“that you’re not a Dissenter.”
“Eh!” said Lewisham, and then, “No! I am not a Dissenter.”
“That’s better,” said Mr. Chaffery. “I’m glad of that. I was just a little afraid—Something in your manner. I can’t stand Dissenters. I’ve a peculiar dislike to Dissenters. To my mind it’s the great drawback of this Clapham. You see ... I have invariably found them deceitful—invariably.”
He grimaced and dropped his glasses with a click against his waistcoat buttons. “I’m very glad of that,” he said, replacing them. “The Dissenter, the Nonconformist Conscience, the Puritan, you know, the Vegetarian and Total Abstainer, and all that sort of thing, I cannot away with them. I have cleared my mind of cant and formulae. I’ve a nature essentially Hellenic. Have you ever read Matthew Arnold?”
“Beyond my scientific reading—”