I
As Alison arose from her knees and made her way out of the pew, it was the expression on Charlotte Plimpton's face which brought her back once more to a sense of her surroundings; struck her, indeed, like a physical blow. The expression was a scandalized one. Mrs. Plimpton had moved towards her, as if to speak, but Alison hurried past, her exaltation suddenly shattered, replaced by a rising tide of resentment, of angry amazement against a materialism so solid as to remain unshaken by the words which had so uplifted her. Eddies were forming in the aisle as the people streamed slowly out of the church, and snatches of their conversation, in undertones, reached her ears.
“I should never have believed it!”
“Mr. Hodder, of all men...”
“The bishop!”
Outside the swinging doors, in the vestibule, the voices were raised a little, and she found her path blocked.
“It's incredible!” she heard Gordon Atterbury saying to little Everett Constable, who was listening gloomily.
“Sheer Unitarianism, socialism, heresy.”
His attention was forcibly arrested by Alison, in whose cheeks bright spots of colour burned. He stepped aside, involuntarily, apologetically, as though he had instinctively read in her attitude an unaccountable disdain. Everett Constable bowed uncertainly, for Alison scarcely noticed them.
“Ahem!” said Gordon, nervously, abandoning his former companion and joining her, “I was just saying, it's incredible—”