Then Philip spoke for the first time. “I won’t do it—I’m through with all that.”
There was a horrible silence, broken only by the clatter of a fork dropped by little Ethel on her plate.
“What do you mean?”
“I told you all that before. I thought you must have understood by now. I can’t go on saying it forever.”
“But, Philip ... you can’t refuse a good man like the Reverend Castor. You can’t when he’s been so kind. He always prayed for you and Naomi every Sunday, publicly, as if you were our special missionaries.”
There was only silence from Philip. The dark jaw had hardened suddenly.
“When we were all looking forward to it so much,” added Emma.
Then suddenly there came to him a faint suspicion—shadowy and somewhat shameful—of what it was all about. They were looking forward to an orgy of public notice and glory, to sitting bathed in the reflected light while he talked about Africa to a congregation of faithful admirers. He even suspected that this was the reason they were so determined to ship him back to Africa. They would find glory in his sufferings. He was angry suddenly, even hostile.
“You can tell him I won’t do it.”
“But, Philip, you must tell him yourself.”