"It is rather small," was the response.
"Oh, that's the worst," said the young lady. "One cannot have everything at the beginning: there must always be some drawbacks. I know a church in London, not very much larger than this, where there are three sweet little private sanctuaries: here we have only one."
"Sanctuaries?" repeated the agent, evidently not understanding.
"Confessionals. For confession, you know. We have only one here, and that is obliged to be in the vestry."
"Oh, then the place is Roman Catholic!" said Mr. Smith, quietly. "I thought so."
He had no intention to offend: it was simply what he inferred: but Miss St. Henry gave a little shriek and put her two hands to her ears. Martha Sumnor, a free, showy girl, stepped up.
"For goodness' sake don't call it that," she said. "Papa would go on at us, for coming here, worse than he does."
Mr. Smith bowed and begged pardon. He could not help thinking this was a daughter of the vicar of the old church, but was not sure: and he wondered much.
Even so. The two daughters of Mr. Sumnor had joined St. Jerome's. They and their mother had long set the vicar at defiance.
Foxwood was deemed to be a particularly healthy place; in the summer months, invalids were wont to resort to it from the neighbouring town of Basham. To meet requirements, lodgings being scarce, a row of houses had been run up in the heart of the village, near where the old pound used to stand. They were called Paradise Row. Very pretty to look at; perhaps not quite so good to wear; stuccoed white fronts outside, lath and plaster within. If the door of one banged, the whole of the houses shook; and the ringing of a sitting-room bell was heard right and left throughout the Row.