“Oh, thank you,” responded Anita, after a quick but thorough inspection of Alva’s face, to make sure she was like her voice. I had not counted on this; I had been assuming that Anita would not be out of my sight until we were married. It was on the tip of my tongue to interfere when she looked at me—for permission to go. “Don’t keep her too long,” said I to Alva, and they were gone.
“You can’t blame me—really you can’t, Mr. Blacklock,” Mrs. Ball began to plead for herself, as soon as they were safely out of hearing. “After some things—mere hints, you understand—for I’m careful what I permit Mr. Ball to say before me. I think married people cannot be too respectful of each other. I never tolerate vulgarity.”
“No doubt, Joe has made me out a very vulgar person,” said I, forgetting her lack of sense of humor.
“Oh, not at all, not at all, Mr. Blacklock,” she protested, in a panic lest she had done her husband damage with me. “I understand, men will be men, though as a pure-minded woman, I’m sure I can’t imagine why they should be.”
“How far off is the nearest church?” I cut in.
“Only two blocks—that is, the Methodist church,” she replied. “But I know Mr. Ball will bring an Episcopalian.”
“Why, I thought you were a devoted Presbyterian,” said I, recalling how in their Brooklyn days she used to insist on Joe’s going with her twice every Sunday to sleep through long sermons.
She looked uncomfortable. “I was reared Presbyterian,” she explained, confusedly, “but you know how it is in New York. And when we came to live here, we got out of the habit of churchgoing. And all Alva’s little friends were Episcopalians. So I drifted toward that church. I find the service so satisfying—so—elegant. And—one sees there the people one sees socially.”
“How is your culture class?” I inquired, deliberately malicious, in my impatience and nervousness. “And do you still take conversation lessons?”
She was furiously annoyed. “Oh, those old jokes of Joe’s,” she said, affecting disdainful amusement.