last; and Paul Overt saw in the distance the return of the churchgoers—several persons, in couples and threes, advancing in a flicker of sun and shade at the end of a large green vista formed by the level grass and the overarching boughs.
"If you mean to imply that we are bad, I protest," said one of the gentlemen—"after making oneself agreeable all the morning!"
"Ah, if they've found you agreeable!" Mrs. St. George exclaimed, smiling. "But if we are good the others are better."
"They must be angels then," observed the General.
"Your husband was an angel, the way he went off at your bidding," the gentleman who had first spoken said to Mrs. St. George.
"At my bidding?"
"Didn't you make him go to church?"
"I never made him do anything in my life but once, when I made him burn up a bad book. That's all!" At her "That's all!" Paul broke into an irrepressible laugh; it lasted only a second, but it drew her eyes to him. His own met them, but not long enough to help him to understand her; unless it were a step towards this that he felt sure on the instant that the burnt book (the way she alluded to it!) was one of her husband's finest things.
"A bad book?" her interlocutor repeated.
"I didn't like it. He went to church because your daughter went," she continued, to General Fancourt. "I think it my duty to call your attention to his demeanour to your daughter."
"Well, if you don't mind it, I don't," the General laughed.
"Il s'attache à ses pas." But I don't wonder—she's so charming."