“Good evening, Sister—Brother Aylston,” he boomed sedately.
“Evening. Ready to speak?”
“Absolutely.”
She lighted a little. “That’s good. Everything else’s gone wrong, and these preachers here think I can travel an evangelistic crew on air. Give ’em fits about tight-wad Christian business men, will you, Elmer? How they hate to loosen up! Cecil! Kindly don’t look as if I’d bitten somebody. I haven’t . . . not yet.”
Aylston ignored her, and the two men watched each other like a panther and a buffalo (but a buffalo with a clean shave and ever so much scented hair-tonic).
“Brother Aylston,” said Elmer, “I noticed in the account of last evening’s meeting that you spoke of Mary and the anointing with spikenard, and you quoted these ‘Idylls of the King,’ by Tennyson. Or that’s what the newspaper said.”
“That’s right.”
“But do you think that’s good stuff for evangelism? All right for a regular church, especially with a high-class rich congregation, but in a soul-saving campaign—”
“My dear Mr. Gantry, Miss Falconer and I have decided that even in the most aggressive campaign there is no need of vulgarizing our followers.”
“Well, that isn’t what I’d give ’em!”