“And didn’t you, don’t you, believe it wonderful?”
She looked at him quietly, “But Westbury is my own,” she answered.
“And isn’t it,” he pleaded, “my own, too, by this time?”
“Yours?” she looked at him with far, intent eyes, then before his wide child-gaze, troubled, her smile flashed reassurance, “Yours, surely, Henry!” again she fell thoughtful, “yet it depends a little on what you mean!”
“Westbury has been mine,” he maintained, and then, not confident, “and Westbury has not changed, has it, Lucy?”
She was silent.
“It has not changed, Lucy?”
“Oh, no, no, Henry,” she comforted him, “How? Where? Look about and see!”
“Once it sent more men forth into the church than any other place in all the country. Will it, do you believe, continue to do that?”
“Westbury is still churchly! Look at us! Westbury still goes to church. I myself set the example.”