"I suppose they are moderate in their wants. They don't require suites of chambers with frescoed ceilings, and walls hung with white satin, rose color, lavender—and the rest. They don't need a four-story palace, with carpets of velvet to cover the floors from attic to basement. Do they?" All the scorn and bitterness expressed in these words the organist happily could never perceive. But he discerned enough to make him shudder, and he believed that the speaker was mad.
"I don't think I understand you," he answered, perplexed and cautious. He feared the effect of his words. But anything that he might say would produce now one sole result.
"Very likely you don't understand," said Mr. Rush.
"But," said the organist, "I wish I did."
"Why, man?"
"You look so troubled, sir."
"Troubled?"
"As if you—hadn't—tried out the Good Will doctrine. I mean—yes, I do! that I shouldn't suppose you believed in it," said Summerman, bravely.
Mr. Rush laughed bitterly. "I'll tell you a story," said he.
"No—no—I mean not yet—don't," exclaimed Summerman, quickly.