catechism and, of course, heard a good deal of the old testament and most of the new; but it had been a matter of rote or formalism. When she was about sixteen, and undergoing the spiritual emotions common to that age, she had been sufficiently gratified by the forms of the Episcopal Church so that she had become "confirmed"; but soon afterwards she had ceased attending oftener than at some occasional service. Religion—that was, the belief in a just and judging God, a dispenser of rewards and of retribution—had not become a part of her; it is the modern fashion to dismiss superior "judgments" and fear of retribution as superstition. And Marjorie was modern. When Billy expressed a belief of that sort, she could not help feeling superior to him at the same time that, also, she envied him. He was religious; every Sunday morning he was to be found in one of the pews of the big Presbyterian church on the Drive near East Pearson Street. In an indulgent sort of way, she liked that in Billy; it was a reassuring fact about him—to have his religion sincere—but she never quite saw what benefit it gave him. Now she did; for he had something, which she had not, to cling to. You couldn't cling to what she had—a perfect verbal memory of the ten commandments and articles of faith which you didn't believe. Yet she did not agree that Billy was right. People did live with concealed sin; it was only a child's tale that they could not. Rinderfeld's prosperity was an open denial of such superstition; for his business was, after all, the successful concealing of sin and the prevention of punishment.
"Can you live better with scandal, Billy?" she said, trying to keep her voice from being hard but not wholly succeeding.
