“No,” she replied distantly....
When Catherine got back to Cubitt Lane, Amelia said:
“Well—had a good time?”
There was something so spiteful in Amelia’s tone that Catherine felt compelled to say: “Oh yes, rather! Had a lovely time! And Mr. Hobbs was awf’ly nice!”
§ 7
She was in a groove now. The rebuilding of her soul no longer troubled her. She was content to be as she was. Her egoism, her insane self-conceit fell from the lofty plane which had been their sole excuse, and worked in narrower and more selfish channels. In Cubitt Lane she was considered proud and “stuck-up.” She did not associate with the “young fellers up the road,” nor did she frequent the saloon-bar of the King’s Head. In all things she was quiet, aloof and unimpeachably respectable. She was always dressed neatly and well, and she did not possess any dress which, by its showiness and general lack of utility, bore the label “Sundays only.” Now that she was in a district where fine talk was unusual, she began to be vain of her language and accent. To Amelia she was always scornful and consciously aloof: even to Mr. Hobbs she was not loth to betray an attitude of innate superiority. And Mr. Hobbs did not mind it. The more arrogant her mien, the more scornful her tone, the more he singled her out for his preferences and favours.
The Duke Street Methodist Chapel, despite its frowsy surroundings, had always been famous as the last refuge of unimpeachable respectability. Its external architecture was as the respectability of its patrons, severe and uncompromising. And the Reverend Samuel Swallow, excellent man though he was, did not fulfil the ideal of a spiritual guide. His sermons were upright, and as often happens, stiff-necked as well. There was too much noise and bombast about him. Too much chumminess in his dealings with the Almighty. Catherine went to one Sunday evening’s service, and those were her mental criticisms. She sat in one of the front pews, and exhibited her superiority by dropping a sixpence gently on to a pile of coppers when the plate came round. The building had recently been re-decorated, and stank abominably of paint. In the choir, where years ago her mother had stood and yelled, a new galaxy of beauty sang down menacingly over the shoulders of the Rev. Samuel Swallow.... And before the sermon the latter announced: “Whan of our brethren has presented us with a timepiece, which, as you may perhaps have noticed, is now fixed immediately beneath the rails of the gallery.” (General craning of necks and shuffling of collars to look at it.) ... “I trust—indeed, I am sure—that none of you will show your impatience towards the conclusion of my sermon by looking round too frequently at this recent addition to the amenities of our church....” A soft rustling titter, instinct with unimpeachable respectability....
Catherine decided that she could not join a “place” like that. She had decided to join a “place” of some sort, because joining a “place” was an indispensable item of respectability. But she wanted her respectability to be superior to other people’s respectability, superior to Amelia’s, superior to Mrs. Lazenby’s, superior to the Rev. Samuel Swallow’s. Her conceit now wanted to make her more respectable than any other person she knew.
She asked Mr. Hobbs if he belonged to a church.
He replied: “I am afraid, my time and avocations do not permit me to attend regularly at any place of worship.... But I often go to the City Temple.... I consider religion an excellent thing....”