“Mr. Orange is a Roman Catholic,” answered Sara, “so he is not disloyal. I am nothing—so I have no obligations. Lord Reckage is in public life and has to meet the problems of the age. Don't be narrow, dear Agnes.”
“I think it too bad, all the same,” replied Miss Carillon—“even in fun. I am sure I am right.”
Lord Reckage tried to conceal his annoyance, but his voice shook a little as he said—
“We were not joking. New men will come in, not improbably with new ideas. I must be ready for them. An ignorance of men's moods is fatal.”
He hoped she would take this warning to herself. She was, however, too stirred to consider anything except the cause of their common agitation.
“Dr. Benson was saying to papa only last week,” she answered, “that there is no apparent recognition of the Divine presence in our daily affairs. It is most shocking.”
“The clergy are doing their level best, by bigotry, to make Benson's assertion true. At any rate, I am not going about, as the French put it, with my paws in the air. I feel strongly tempted to throw up my present line, and give the whole Association to the best qualified hypocrite of my acquaintance.”
“The sure way out of that temptation is not to think yourself exposed to it,” said Robert quickly.
“I hate sophistries,” said Agnes, tightening her lips. “And I hope, Beauclerk, that you will never remain in any painful situation against your will.”
These words seemed to bear an ominous significance. Agnes herself, having uttered them, received one of those sudden inward illuminations which, in some natures, amount to second-sight. But she was unimaginative and not especially observant, sensitive, or skilled in discerning the signs of any psychological disturbance. She felt only, on this occasion, that a crisis had been reached, that Reckage was vexed with himself, with her, with life generally. She had a letter in her pocket from David Rennes—a beautiful, touching letter, full of longing for a faith, a hope—love, he said, he possessed, alas! What a difference in the two men!