"Is he not a very great preacher?" asked Grace.
"Yes, but I do not consider him orthodox. He is too broad in his views to suit me."
Grace had been under a vague impression that all American religion was "broad"; she had no idea that a section of the community cherished a rigid ritualism.
"Samuel Sparks is a lovely man," said Mrs. Planter, shaking her head gently, "but perhaps a little too—"
Her criticism was left to shift for itself as best it might in the minds of her hearers. All the men had heard the famous preacher except Sir Mordaunt, and he was not a very regular church-goer. However, on this occasion, he declared that his curiosity was fired, he would accompany the ladies. Mrs. Courtly smiled blandly across the silver urn at him.
"Mrs. Van Winkle will no longer be able to compare you to Guy Livingstone. I am glad you go to church. You, I know, Quintin, are past praying for—"
"Quite." He cut her short, decisively.
"In England it is thought good form for men to go to church. They did so when we stayed in country-houses there all the time," said Mrs. Planter.
"All the time?" repeated Sir Mordaunt, interrogatively, with a look of amused wonder.
"Mamma means every Sunday," explained her daughter; then added, laughing, "All, except a few old heathens, politicians, and philosophers, and people who buried themselves in the library."