"I don't imagine they would," said Beaton. "I think they'd be only too happy to have you come. But you wouldn't know what to do with each other, indeed, Miss Vance."
"Perhaps we shall like each other," said the girl, bravely, "and then we shall know. What Church are they of?"
"I don't believe they're of any," said Beaton. "The mother was brought up a Dunkard."
"A Dunkard?"
Beaton told what he knew of the primitive sect, with its early Christian polity, its literal interpretation of Christ's ethics, and its quaint ceremonial of foot-washing; he made something picturesque of that. "The father is a Mammon-worshipper, pure and simple. I suppose the young ladies go to church, but I don't know where. They haven't tried to convert me."
"I'll tell them not to despair—after I've converted them," said Miss
Vance. "Will you let me use you as a 'point d'appui', Mr. Beaton?"
"Any way you like. If you're really going to see them, perhaps I'd better make a confession. I left your banjo with them, after I got it put in order."
"How very nice! Then we have a common interest already."
"Do you mean the banjo, or—"
"The banjo, decidedly. Which of them plays?"