"Mr. Masters? He's our minister."
"What sort of a chap is he? Not like all the rest of them?"
"How are all the rest of them?" Diana asked.
"I declare, I don't know!" said Knowlton. "If I was to tell the truth, I should say they puzzle all my wits. See 'em in one place—and hear 'em—and you would say they thought all the business of this world was of no account, nor the pleasure of it either. See 'em anywhere else, and they are just as much of this world as you are—or as I am, I mean. They change as fast as a chameleon. In the light that comes through a church window, now, they'll be blue enough, and make you think blue's the only wear—or black; but once outside, and they like the colour that comes through a glass of wine or anything also that's jolly. One thing or the other they don't mean—that's plain."
"Which do you think they don't mean?" said Diana.
"Well, they're two or three hours in church, and the rest of the week outside. I believe what they say the rest of the time."
"I don't think Mr. Masters is like that."
"What is he like, then?"
"I think he means exactly what he says."
"Exactly," said the young officer, laughing; "but which part of the time, you know?"