The sermon was a dissertation on the Book of Jonah, a sort of résumé of
all the argument, on both sides, that has torn the theological world in
these latter days. Not a word of Stephen Marshall's Christ, save a sort
of side reference to a verse about Jonah being three days and three
nights in the whale, and the Son of Man being three days in the heart of
the earth. Courtland wasn't even sure that this reference meant the
Christ, and it never entered his head that it touched at the heart of
the great doctrine of the resurrection of the dead. As far as he could
understand the reverend gentleman the arguments he quoted against the
Book of Jonah were far stronger and more plausible than those put forth
in its defense. What was it all about, anyway? What did it matter
whether Jonah was or was not, or whether anybody accepted the book? How
could a thing like that affect the life of a man?

Tennelly watched the expressive face beside him and decided that perhaps
Bill Ward had been half right, after all.

On their way back to the university they met Gila Dare. Gila all in gray
like a dove, gray suit of soft, rich cloth, gray furs of the depth and
richness of smoke, gray suède boots laced high to meet her brief gray
skirts, silver hat with a single velvet rose on the brim to match the
soft rose-bloom on her cheeks. Gila with eyes as wide and innocent as a
baby's, cupid mouth curved sweetly in a gracious, shy smile, and dainty
little prayer-book done in gray suède held devoutly in her little gloved
hand.

"Who's that?" growled Tennelly, admiringly, when they had passed a
suitable distance.