"My dear," says Mr. Skipworth, closing his eyes slightly, whether overcome by the sun or Madeira it would be hard to say (how I hate being "my deared"), "did you hear the sermon to-day?"
"Yes, sir."
"And what did I say?"
"Something or other about Methuselah."
"No. I spoke of grace, the effects of grace. Without grace," he continues, folding his fat hands, and simmering gently in the hot sunshine like a seal, "we are lost, vile, miserable creatures, lower than the beasts of the field."
"You and I may be," I say stoutly, "but mother isn't, she is much more like an angel."
"You are a wicked girl," he says, turning slowly and surveying me, "you are also ignorant. Do you not know that all mankind is born in sin, and that even a new-born babe is tainted with evil? It would appear that the infant is aware of that fact, for what is the first thing it does on coming into the world?"
"It howls," I say briefly.
"It weeps," says Mr. Skipworth rebukingly; "and why does it weep?"
"Because it's hungry," I say promptly.
"It does nothing of the sort," he says irately, "it weeps because it knows it is born in sin."
"Oh, poor little soul," I say, laughing immoderately, "I—I—beg your pardon, Mr. Skipworth, but—but it's such a ridiculous idea, as if it knew anything."
"Your levity is exceedingly unbecoming, miss," says my pastor, in a voice that reminds me of vinegar tasting through oil.
"I beg your pardon, I do really," I say again, stifling my mirth as well as can, "but when you were a baby—I suppose you were a baby once, Mr. Skipworth?"
"I suppose so," he says stiffly.
