Here Myra failed. She belonged to a Primitive Non-Conformist Communion whose austere creed and drab ceremonial had furnished occasion for Olivia’s teasing wit since childhood. Heathendom, ever divorced from Lydian pleasures, presented infinitely more reasons for existence than Myra’s Calvinism.
“It seems funny that a dear old thing like you can revel in the idea of Eternal Punishment.”
“I haven’t got much else to revel in, have I?” said Myra grimly.
“I suppose that’s true,” said Olivia thoughtfully. “But it isn’t my fault, is it? If you had wanted to revel, mother and I would have been the last people to prevent you. Why not begin now? Go and have a debauch at the pictures.”
“You began by talking of bankruptcy,” said Myra.
“And you prescribed little Bethel. I’d sooner go broke.”
“You’ll have your own way, as usual,” said Myra.
“And if I go broke, what’ll you do?” asked Olivia, unregenerately enjoying the conversation.
“I suppose I’ll have to put you together again,” replied Myra, with no sign of emotion on her angular, withered face.
Olivia leaped from her chair.