Bennett smiled a superior smile, and leaning easily against the bar, crossed his legs and surveyed the company generally with a compassionate air.
"I suppose it's quite a business down here,—goin' to church, eh?" he queried—"Sort of excitement like—only bit of fun you've got— helps to keep you all alive! That's the country way, but Lord bless you!—in town we're not taking any!"
Bainton looked up,—and Mr. Netlips loosened his collar and lifted his head, as though preparing himself for another flow of 'cohesion' eloquence. Farmer Thorpe turned his bull-neck slowly round, and brought his eyes to bear on the speaker.
"How d'ye make that out, Mr. Bennett?" he demanded. "Doan't ye sarve the A'mighty same in town as in country?"
"Not a bit of it!" replied Bennett airily—"You're a long way behind the times, Mr. Thorpe!—you are indeed, beggin' your pardon for sayin' so! The 'best' people have given up the Almighty altogether, owing to recent scientific discoveries. They've taken to the Almighty Dollar instead which no science can do away with. And Sundays aren't used any more for church-going, except among the middle-class population,—they're just Bridge days with OUR set— Bridge lunches, Bridge suppers,—every Sunday's chock full of engagements to 'Bridge,' right through the 'season.'"
"That's cards, ain't it?" enquired Dan Ridley.
"Just so! Harmless cards!" rejoined Bennett—"Only you can chuck away a few thousands or so on 'em if you like!"
Mr. Netlips here pushed aside his emptied ale-glass and raised his fat head unctuously out of his stiff shirt-collar.
"Are we to understand," he began ponderously, "that Miss Vancourt is addicted to this fashion of procrastinating the Lord's Day?"
Bennett straightened his dapper figure suddenly.