Baron led the way into the sitting-room, Bonnie May following. He pretended not to see or to apprehend anything unusual. “Well, what do you think of Sunday-school?” he began gayly.
“I think it’s fierce!” This took the form of an explosion. “It wouldn’t do even for one-night stands!”
Baron felt the need of an admonitory attitude. “Bonnie May,” he said, “you should have discovered that it wasn’t a play. It was something real. It’s a place where people go to help each other.”
“They certainly need help all right enough.” This with a quite unlovely jeering laugh.
“I wonder what you mean by that?”
“I suppose I meant the same thing you meant yourself.”
Baron paused, frowning. “I meant,” he explained patiently, “that they are people who want to be as good as they can, and who want to give one another encouragement.”
The child was conscious of his wish to be conciliatory. She tried to restrain herself. “Well,” she asked, “if they want to be good, why don’t they just be good? What’s the use of worrying about it?”
“I’m afraid it isn’t quite so simple a matter as all that.”
Bonnie May’s wrath arose in spite of herself. She was recalling certain indignities. “I don’t see anything in it but a bum performance. Do you know what I think they go there for?”