The priest’s sister came out from the inner room, whence proceeded the loud bubbling squeaks of cocoa-drinkers.
“Now, Christopher,” she said, “why didn’t you tell me you had found a new helper?”
“I do not know that I have, my dear,” replied the priest. “This young lady has misinterpreted something I said to her.”
“It’s very lucky that she did, then,” said the priest’s sister. “We are so badly in need of a new voluntary helper.”
“You oblige me to put the matter baldly, my dear,” said the priest, keeping his temper with a creditable effort. “This is the young lady I mentioned to you last night in the course of conversation. All our helpers hitherto have been of the highest moral character.”
“From your face...” said the priest’s sister to the suffragette. “I am sure you mean well. I am sure you are not wicked. And if you have slipped, there is nothing like hard work in the Brown Borough to make you forget.”
The suffragette was so much startled to hear herself addressed in this unusual vein that she very nearly cried. It is rare to have tears so near so horny a surface as hers.
“My dear ...” said the priest. “I think you forget my position of authority in this parish. You also forget the pure young souls committed to your care in this club. Yerce, yerce.”
He actually imagined the factory girls to be as innocent as himself. To him the words youth and innocence were indivisible.
“Oh, nonsense, Christopher,” said his sister. “She doesn’t necessarily want to help with this club, and even if she did she can’t convey infection to the girls by playing the piano to them.”