He went to bed in the same trouble of mind. Every night he had fallen asleep with Statira in his thoughts, but now it was Miss Carver that he thought of, and more and more uncomfortably. He asked himself what she would say if she saw his mother in the bloomers. She was herself not dressed so fashionably as Statira, but very nicely.
XVII.
At Sewell's house the maid told Evans to walk up into the study, without seating him first in the reception-room, as if that were needless with so intimate a friend of the family. He found Sewell at his desk, and he began at once, without the forms of greeting:
“If you don't like that other subject, I've got a new one for you, and you could write a sermon on it that would make talk.”
“You look at it from the newspaper point of view,” returned Sewell, in the same humour. “I'm not an 'enterprise,' and I don't want to make talk in your sense. I don't know that I want to make talk at all; I should prefer to make thought, to make feeling.”
“Well,” said the editor, “this would do all three.”
“Would you come to hear me, if I wrote the sermon?”
“Ah, that's asking a good deal.”
“Why don't you develop your idea in an article? You're always bragging that you preach to a larger congregation than I.”