“Why—Mr. Alard.”
George was a little shocked to hear him speak out loud, and not in the solemn whisper he considered appropriate for church. The Rector seemed surprised to see him—did he want to speak to him about anything?
“Oh, no—I only looked in as I was passing.”
“Seen our new picture?” asked Luce.
“Which one?” The church must have contained at least a dozen pictures besides the Stations of the Cross.
“In the Sacrament Chapel.”
They went down to the east end, where Luce genuflected, and George, wavering between politeness and the Bishop of Exeter’s definition of the Real Presence, made a sort of curtsey. There was a very dark oil painting behind the Altar—doubtful as to subject, but the only thing in the church, George told himself, which had any pretence to artistic value.
“Mrs. Hurst gave us that,” said Luce—“it used to hang in her dining-room, but considering the subject she thought it better for it to be here.”
He had dropped his voice to a whisper—George thought it must be out of respect to the Tabernacle, but the next minute was enlightened.
“She’s asleep,” he said, pointing to the stout old woman.