She welcomed him with the mood and language of their last night together in London.
"Well, I hope the practising barrister made a lot of money," she said to him the first evening after dinner.
"I had rather a good assize," he answered. "My fair share at Leeds and more than my fair share at Newcastle. In money, it wouldn't seem much to you, but I'm quite pleased."
A word of congratulation launched him on a conscientious survey of his fees and cases from the delivery of his first brief. In succeeding conversation he threw further slabs of information at her by schedule, talking of himself with simple-minded absorption. Finance was polished off the first night; the Waring family, three times sub-divided, occupied the following day, and with healthy relentlessness he overhauled Catholicism in particular and revealed religion in general.
The conversation, if one-sided and monotonous, was at least amicable until a smouldering brand from the theological bonfire, waved to life in the kindling breeze of personality, set her ablaze.
"Of course, the whole bag of tricks wants overhauling," said Jack of the Established Church and its liturgy. "When a fellow's ordained, he says he believes all sorts of things that he doesn't, really. Every congregation mouths responses like so many parrots, but if you tackled any single member with a plain question, he'd have to admit that he didn't believe the whole business exactly as it's set out in the pleadings. Well, I've got a legal mind. If you say Christ descended into Hell and on the third day rose again from the dead and ascended into Heaven, I want to know if you mean it literally or figuratively? That's one of the beauties of your Church; you don't admit any doubt or vagueness."
"'What are the laws of nature, not to bend
If the Church bid them?'"
murmured Barbara.
"You believe that?"