“But you do.” She turned to John. “Does n't he, Belovedest?”
Herold glanced at the clock. “I must run. I promised Sir Oliver to go to church. We 'll have the rest of the play this afternoon.”
“Why don't you go to church, too?” Stella asked when Herold had gone.
“I 'm not so good as Walter,” he replied.
“You are,” she cried warmly.
He shook his head. He knew that Herold's churchgoing was not an act of great spiritual devotion; for the Southcliff service was dull, and the vicar, good, limited man, immeasurably duller. It was an act of characteristic unselfishness: he went so as to be a buffer between Sir Oliver and his wife, who invariably quarreled during their sedate, official walk to and from morning service, and on this particular occasion, with fresh contentious matter imported from the outside, were likely to hold discourse with each other more than usually acrimonious.
“Walter's a sort of saint,” said he, “who can hear the music of the spheres. I can't. I just jog along the ground and listen to barrel-organs.”,
They argued the point for a while, then drifted back to Herold's acting, thence to the story of the play.
“I wonder what 's going to happen,” said Stellamaris. “If Dorothy does n't marry her sailor, I shall never get over it.”
John laughed. “Suppose the sailor turns out to be a dark, double-dyed, awful villain?”