“No.”
She did not push her advantage, and the unpleasant fact again stood before Zachariah’s eyes, as it had stood a hundred times before them lately, that when he had been with sinners he had been just what they were, barring the use of profane language. What had he done for his master with the Major, with Jean, and with Pauline?—and the awful figure of the Crucified seemed to rise before him and rebuke him. He was wretched: he had resolved over and over again to break out against those who belonged to the world, to abjure them and all their works. Somehow or other, though, he had not done it.
“Suppose,” said Mrs. Zachariah, “we were to ask the Major here on Sunday afternoon to tea, and to chapel afterwards.”
“Certainly.” He was rather pleased with the proposition. He would be able to bear witness in this way at any rate to the truth.
“Perhaps we might at the same time ask Jean Caillaud, his friend. Would to God”—his wife started—“would to God,” he exclaimed fervently, “that these men could be brought into the Church of Christ!”
“To be sure. Ask Mr. Caillaud, then, too.”
“If we do, we must ask his daughter also; he would not go out without her.”
“I was not aware he had a daughter. You never told me anything about her.”
“I never saw her till the other evening.”
“I don’t know anything of her. She is a foreigner too. I hope she is a respectable young person.”