"You really ought not to let the maids talk so," said Mrs. Lessing
gently.

Peter glanced at her with a curiously hopeless feeling, and looked slowly
round the room until his eyes rested on Mr. Lessing's portrait over the
mantelshelf, presented by the congregation of St. John's on some occasion
two years before. From the portrait he turned to the gentleman, but it
was not necessary for him to speak. Mr. Lessing was saying something to
the man--probably ordering the car. He glanced across at Hilda, who had
made some reply to her mother and was toying with a spoon. He thought he
had never seen her look more handsome and.... He could not find the word:
thought of "solid," and then smiled at the thought. It did not fit in
with the sunlight on her hair.

"Well, well," said Mr. Lessing; "we ought to make a move. It won't do for
either of us to be late, Mr. Preacher."

The congregation of St. John's assembled on a Sunday morning as befitted
its importance and dignity. Families arrived, or arrived by two or three
representatives, and proceeded with due solemnity to their private pews.
No one, of course, exchanged greetings on the way up the church, but
every lady became aware, not only of the other ladies present, but of
what each wore. A sidesman, with an air of portentous gravity, as one
who, in opening doors, performed an office more on behalf of the Deity
than the worshippers, was usually at hand to usher the party in. Once
there, there was some stir of orderly bustle: kneelers were distributed
according to requirements, books sorted out after the solemn unlocking of
the little box that contained them, sticks and hats safely stowed away.
These duties performed, paterfamilias cast one penetrating glance round