They laughed and applauded as the figure in the silk gown moved forward into the room. Mr. Thomas Temple could play a variety of parts. His mimicry excelled in burlesquing the episcopate.
“My children, let peace be upon this house.” And he gave them a pompous blessing with upraised hands.
Hortense rose from the harpsichord with the assumed fire of a fanatic.
“Children of Belial!”
“Lady, pardon me, they are already qualifying as saints.”
“What sayest thou, Antichrist, thou Red Man of Rome? Woe, woe unto this city when its priests wax fat in purple and fine linen!”
The bishop extended reproving hands.
“Woman, blaspheme not! We are here to save all souls with the kiss of peace. My children, come hither. Have you been baptized?”
The three girls tittered. Hortense stood forward, flinging out one arm with a passionate gesture of scorn.
“Behold the book of the beast. Behold the Serpent without a surplice! And you—ye children of iniquity—make way for Thomas with the wine!”