She rose and lifted a book from the table, which she handed to him. He took it, and read the title out loud.
“Christian’s Cross.”
A strange expression passed over his face. He looked at her, holding the book out at arms’-length with feigned consternation.
“And do you have the heart to recommend this book to me, Mrs. Thornton?”
“Why not?”
“Why, it’s religious. Religious books are my terror. How could I possibly open a book like this?”
She laughed.
“You are mistaken,” she said. “It is an ordinary novel, and for the sake of your peace of mind I assure you that there is not a particle of religion in it. But why should you look with such repugnance upon it? The expression of your face is simply horror.”
“Pietistic books have been the bane of my life. The emotional, the rhapsodical, the meditative style of book, in which one garrulously addresses one’s soul from beginning to end, is simply torture to me. You see religion is a different thing. The rhapsody may do for the Tabernacle people, but thoughtful men and women need something different.”
“I am so delighted to hear such sentiments from a clergyman! They entirely accord with my own. Still I must own that your horror struck me as novel, to say the least of it.”