“Yes.”
“And zealous, as usual, I suppose?’ Ah, what a thing it is to be pious! But let me beg you not to encourage her too much. Charity begins at home; and what with soup-kitchens, offertories, subscriptions for church repairs, and societies for the gratuitous distribution of flannel waistcoats, I am in a fair way of being ruined.”
Santley forced a laugh.
“Don’t be afraid. My errand to-day was not a begging one, I assure you.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“I was merely bringing Mrs. Haldane a book I promised to lend her. To tell the truth, she finds your library rather destitute of works of a religious nature.”
“Do you really think so?” exclaimed Haldane, drily. “Why, I thought it unusually well provided in that respect. Let me see! There are Volney’s ‘Ruins of Empire,’ Monboddo’s ‘Dissertations,’ Drummond’s ‘Academical Questions,’ excellent translations of Schopenhauer and Hartmann, not to speak of thirty-six volumes of Diderot, and fifty of Arouet.”
Santley opened his eyes in horror and astonishment.
“Arouet!” he ejaculated. “Do you actually mean to call Voltaire a religious writer?”
“Highly so. There is religion even in ‘La Pucelle,’ but it reaches its culmination in the ‘Philosophical Dictionary.’”