The curate's ruffled feelings were evidently not soothed by this explanation.
“But—but, Mr. Knowles,” he stammered, “really, I—I am at a loss to understand your meaning. Surely you do not mean that—that—”
“Of course he didn't mean that,” put in Hephzy. “What he said was that some of the ones who talk the loudest and oftenest in prayer-meetin' at our Methodist church in Bayport weren't as good as they pretended to be. And that's so, too.”
Mr. Judson seemed relieved. “Oh,” he exclaimed. “Oh, yes, I quite comprehend. Methodists—er—dissenters—that is quite different—quite.”
“Mr. Judson knows that no one except communicants in the Church of England are certain of happiness,” observed Frances, very gravely.
Our caller turned his attention to her. He was not a joker, but I think he was a trifle suspicious. The young lady met his gaze with one of serene simplicity and, although he reddened, he returned to the charge.
“I should—I should scarcely go as far as that, Miss Morley,” he said. “But I understand Mr. Knowles to refer to—er—church members; and—er—dissenters—Methodists and others—are not—are not—”
“Well,” broke in Hephzibah, with decision, “I'm a Methodist, myself, and I don't expect to go to perdition.”
Judson's guns were spiked. He turned redder than ever and changed the subject to the weather.
The remainder of the conversation was confined for the most part to Frances and the curate. They discussed the village and the people in it and the church and its activities. At length Judson mentioned golf.