“Try.”
“Let Mr. Santley come sometimes, and speak with you about God!”
This was too much, almost, for even me to bear with equanimity. I am afraid I did not look particularly amiable as I answered, sharp and short, turning from her—
“After all, I think you had better go and look at those designs.”
“There, you are angry again!” she cried; and I knew by the sound of her voice that her throat was choked with tears. “You are always angry when I touch upon religion.”
“You were not talking of religion,” I retorted; “you were talking of that man.”
“Why do you dislike him so? Because he is a preacher of the Word?”
“Because he is a canting hypocrite, like all his tribe,” I cried.
She saw that I had lost my temper, as was inevitable, and, sighing deeply, moved to the door. I followed her with my eyes. I would have given the world to call her back; to clasp her in my arms; to tell her my aching fears; to promise her I would worship any God she choose, in any place, in any way, so long as she would only be true, and answer my eager impulse with a little love. But I was too proud for that.
“Then you are going?” I said.