it from Tourist Insolence.

Mrs. Johnson agreed enthusiastically with Peter.

"I call it just sweet. You should see it on a Sunday, Mr. Margerison--Mr.
Peter, as I should say, shouldn't I?--all the flags flying, and the sun
shining on the gilt front an' all, and the band playing in the square;
an' inside half a dozen services all at once, and the incense floatin'
everywhere. Not as I'm partial to incense; it makes me feel a bit
squeamish--and Miss Gould there tells me it affects her similarly, don't
it, Miss Gould? Incense, I say--don't it give you funny feelin's within?
Seem to upset you, as it were?"

Miss Gould, disturbed in her intimate conversation with the curate, held
up mittened hands in deprecating horror, either at the delicacy of the
question called across the table with gentlemen present, or at the memory
it called up in her of the funny feelings within.

Mrs. Johnson took it as that, and nodded. "Just like me, she is, in that
way. But I like to see the worship goin' on, all the same. Popish, you
know, of course," she added, and then, bethinking herself, "But perhaps
you're a Roman, Mr. Peter, like your dear brother and sister? Well, Roman
or no Roman, I always say as how Mrs. Margerison is one of the best. A
dear, cheery soul, as has hardships to contend with; and if she finds the
comforts of religion in graven images an' a bead necklace, who am I to
say her no?"

"Peggy," said Hilary wearily across the table, "Illuminato is making a
little beast of himself. Put him out."