“In a manner of speaking it was,” said she, eyeing him with approval. She moved towards the door, then turned.
“You will take coffee after lunch?” she asked.
John looked his assent, yet left it to Corin, as in a manner host, to give verbal reply to the query.
“By all means,” replied Corin. “I need,” he assured her, “every atom of support at your avail.”
Mrs. Trimwell looked at him commiseratingly.
“I’ll be bound it’s hard work down there,” said she sympathetically. “How do you find it, sir?”
“Interesting,” returned Corin, “distinctly interesting. I feel like an explorer of bygone centuries penetrating through modern hideousity, early Victorian crudeness, Puritan dreariness, and various other glooms, to the sweet, kindly simplicity, the grace, the freshness, the love of beauty, appertaining to the olden days. I am,” concluded Corin, helping himself to salad, “crumbling to pieces that which has hidden beauty, and exposing beauty to the light of day. In other words, I’m scraping the plaster off the walls of the church, and enjoying myself.”
Mrs. Trimwell nodded, frank approbation plainly visible on her face.
“And time it was scraped, too. A mucky looking place it was with them walls all stained and chipped and mildewed. Not that it hurt me much, seeing as I never go inside it, except it’s for a christening or a burial.”
“Oh!” remarked Corin, and somewhat feebly, be it stated.