"She liked the hymns, and made no remark upon them, except that one of the choir-boys was singing false, and that she should like to take him out of the choir herself, there and then. It was quite true, and I really feared that her sense of duty might actually impel her to take the child by the ear and lead him solemnly out of the church.
"During the sermon, I regret to say that she burst out laughing. You know Phillis's laugh—a pretty rippling laugh, without any malice in it. Oh, how rare a sweet laugh is! The curate, who was in the pulpit—a very nice young man, and a gentleman, but not, I must own, intellectual; and I hear he was plucked repeatedly for his degree—stopped, puzzled and indignant, and then went on with his discourse. I looked, I suppose, so horrified that Phillis saw she had done wrong, and blushed. There were no more contretemps in the church.
"'My dear Agatha,' she explained, when we came out, 'I suppose I ought not to have laughed. But I really could not help it. Did you notice the young gentleman in the box? He was trying to act, but he spoke the words so badly, just as if he did not understand them. And I laughed without thinking. I am afraid it was very rude of me.'
"I tried to explain things to her, but it is difficult, because sometimes you do not quite know her point of view.
"Next day the curate called. To my vexation Phillis apologised. Without any blushes she went straight to the point.
"'Forgive me,' she said. 'I laughed at you yesterday in church; I am very sorry for it.'
"He was covered with confusion, and stammered something about the sacred building.
"'But I never was in a church before,' she went on.
"'That is very dreadful!' he replied. 'Mrs. L'Estrange, do you not think it is a very dreadful state for a young lady?'
"Then she laughed again, but without apologising.