He stopped short and looked at her narrowly. Her faint smile was not lost on him.
"Now, Miss Wynrod—that isn't fair," he expostulated. "I told you not to do that. Really...."
"But that's what I brought you for," she said. "Of course you like the church. Anyone would. But I want to know about the rest of it. You promised, you know."
He studied her thoughtfully. "Well," he said finally, "let's wait till we get to that bosky dell up there. Then we can sit down and have it out."
When they were seated, Good fell to toying with a stick, and making little circles in the sand. She waited patiently for him to begin. Finally he raised his head and looked at her half timorously from under his bushy eyebrows.
"You won't be angry or disgusted if I tell you what's on my mind?" he inquired.
"Have I ever been?"
"No—you've been quite remarkable in that respect," he admitted. "But this is different."
"Go on—don't excuse yourself any more."
"Well, his text ... they nearly lynched a priest out in Colorado for that. You see, he was preaching to strikers, and when he told them that idleness was the root of all evil ... you couldn't hardly blame them, now could you?"