“I feel quite tired,” laughed one of the pretty girls to the man beside her. “Do you know, for once in my life, I really listened to the sermon?”
“You don’t mean to say so,” he replied. But something in his tone made her glance up at him archly.
“Why do you seem so conscious?” she said. “Were you asleep?”
“No, I scarcely think so. I was very sleepy at the beginning, it was so hot. But there was something rather impressive in that fellow’s voice. To confess the truth, I caught myself listening, like you.”
“If one could always listen, it would make church-going less wearisome,” said the girl. “As a rule, I never attempt it; they always say the same thing.”
“And there was nothing particularly new in what that pale-faced young man had to say this morning, after all,” said her companion. “It was the mere accident of his having an unusually good voice.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” replied the young lady, indifferently, “though I’ve really forgotten what it was about—there are too many other things to think about when one is young and—”
“Lovely,” interrupted her companion. “Yes—and for my part I don’t see what we’re in the world for, if it isn’t to make ourselves as happy as we can. That’s my religion.”
“A very pleasant one, if it has no other merit,” the girl replied, with a laugh.
At that moment a carriage passed them. It had but one occupant—an elderly lady. Her face, though worn and even prematurely aged, was sweet and calm. Her glance fell for an instant on the upturned laughing face of the girl.