It was a sad and scandalous business. Better things might have been
expected of her. She was so obviously a lady. She had been so nicely
brought up. While there was still an English Church on the island, she
never failed to attend Divine Service, despite her Sunday headache. She
was often the only member of the congregation--she and Mr. Freddy
Parker, whose official dignity and English origin, however questionable
his Christianity, constrained him to put in an appearance. Mortal
enemies, they used to sit on opposite pews, glaring across the vacant
building to see if they could catch each other asleep, responding at
irregular intervals out of sheer cussedness, and trying vainly to feel
more charitable during those moments when the scraggy young
curate--generally some social failure who raked together a few pounds
from these hazardous continental engagements--recited the Gospel
according to Saint John. Those days were over. She was definitely on
the downward grade. Three members of the Club and two Russian apostles
were even then engaged in tossing up who should have the privilege of
seeing her home.
Pages:
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223