“Because I hate persons who go to church all the time and boast of it, who do all sorts of mean things, but preach, preach, preach continually. They are hypocritical and false and cruel. I HATE them.”
She looked now as she had in the room at Mrs. Briggs's when I had questioned her concerning her father. I could not imagine the reason for this sudden squall from a clear sky. Hephzy drew a long breath.
“Well,” she said, after a moment, “then Hosy and you ought to get along first-rate together. He's down on hypocrites and make-believe piety as bad as you are. The only time he and Mr. Partridge, our minister in Bayport, ever quarreled—'twasn't a real quarrel, but more of a disagreement—was over what sort of a place Heaven was. Mr. Partridge was certain sure that nobody but church members would be there, and Hosy said if some of the church members in Bayport were sure of a ticket, the other place had strong recommendations. 'Twas an awful thing to say, and I was almost as shocked as the minister was; that is I should have been if I hadn't known he didn't mean it.”
Miss Morley regarded me with a new interest, or at least I thought she did.
“Did you mean it?” she asked.
I smiled. “Yes,” I answered.
“Now, Hosy,” cried Hephzy. “What a way that is to talk! What do you know about the hereafter?”
“Not much, but,” remembering the old story, “I know Bayport. Humph! speaking of ministers, here is one now.”
Judson, the curate, was approaching across the lawn. Hephzy hastily removed the lid of the teapot. “Yes,” she said, with a sigh of relief, “there's enough tea left, though you mustn't have any more, Hosy. Mr. Judson always takes three cups.”
Judson was introduced and, the “between-maid” having brought another chair, he joined our party. He accepted the first of the three cups and observed.