She turned on him.
“It is incredible,” she cried, “that persons who call themselves Christians cannot recognize their religion when they hear it preached.”
He gave back before her, visibly, in an astonishment which would have been ludicrous but for her anger. He had never understood her—such had been for him her greatest fascination;—and now she was less comprehensible than ever. The time had been when he would cheerfully have given over his hope of salvation to have been able to stir her. He had never seen her stirred, and the sight of her even now in this condition was uncomfortably agitating. Of all things, an heretical sermon would appear to have accomplished this miracle!
“Christianity!” he stammered.
“Yes, Christianity.” Her voice tingled. “I don't pretend to know much about it, but Mr. Hodder has at least made it plain that it is something more than dead dogmas, ceremonies, and superstitions.”
He would have said something, but her one thought was to escape, to be alone. These friends of her childhood were at that moment so distasteful as to have become hateful. Some one laid a hand upon her arm.
“Can't we take you home, Alison? I don't see your motor.”
It was Mrs. Constable.
“No, thanks—I'm going to walk,” Alison answered, yet something in Mrs. Constable's face, in Mrs. Constable's voice, made her pause. Something new, something oddly sympathetic. Their eyes met, and Alison saw that the other woman's were tired, almost haggard—yet understanding.
“Mr. Hodder was right—a thousand times right, my dear,” she said.