"Do you? They are three. To hunt hard; to shoot straight; and to go to
church."

"I hope you will perform them--all."

"I shall--all. No--on second thoughts I draw the line at going to church.
It's all very well if you've got a private chapel, or an easy chair in
the chancel, or a family vault you can sit in. But I detest these modern
arrangements; I object to be stuck in a tight position between two
boards, with my feet in somebody else's hat, and somebody else's feet
in mine, and to have people breathing down my collar and hissing and
yelling alternately, in my ear."

Again Miss Batchelor drew her eyebrows together in a friendly frown of
warning. She liked the cosmopolitan Tyson and his reckless speech, and
she had her own reasons for wishing him to make a good impression. But
her hints had roused in him the instinct of antagonism, and he went on
more recklessly than before. "No; you are perfectly wrong. I'm not an
interesting atheist. I have the most beautiful child-like faith in--"

"The God who was clever enough to make Mr. Nevill Tyson?" said Miss
Batchelor, very softly. She had felt the antagonism, and resented it.

At this point Sir Peter came down with one of those tremendous platitudes
that roll conversation out flat. That was his notion of the duty of a
host, to rush in and change the subject just as it was getting exciting.
The old gentleman had destroyed many a promising topic in this way, under
the impression that he was saving a situation.