“I was only thinking,” replied the Dominé, softly, and his eyes seemed to pierce beyond the couple on the seat.
The Freule gave a smart snap—meant not unkindly—to her “church-book” clasp.
“But your wife is in heaven,” she rejoined, “and much better off, unless sermons mean nothing, than anybody here below.”
The Dominé started, and an old scar came out across his cheeks, as if a whip-lash had struck him. “Yes, yes,” he said, hurriedly. “Thank God. Ursula, I think it is time we were going.”
But the spinster laid a detaining hand upon her pastor’s arm. “Surely you must admit,” she persisted, “that you Christians are strangely illogical. What, to a Christian, is the King of Terrors? We should speak, not of Mors, but of Morphia!”
This sentence was taken from the Freule’s favorite periodical, the Victory, in which, however, the concluding word had been printed “Morpheus.”
“Yes, yes, exactly,” replied the Dominé, pulling away. “You remember what Thucydides said, Freule Louisa? I mean, Thucydides says it’s no use discussing a subject unless men are agreed on the meaning of the terms they employ. Ursula, we must really be going. Your aunt has such a dislike to irregular hours.”
“Juffrouw Mopius?” exclaimed Otto. “I didn’t see her in church. I hope she is well?”
Gerard burst out laughing. “Have you been away so long,” he said, “that you have forgotten Miss Mopius’s Sunday headache?”
The Dominé, who could fight men, looked as if he would have liked to answer something about Gerard’s Sunday ailments, but he refrained, evidently feeling that he had already said enough.