"In hell, it seems," said Priscilla, reading in her Sunday paper,
"the children amuse themselves by flaying lambs alive."

"Ah, but, dear lady, that's only a symbol," exclaimed Mr.
Barbecue-Smith, "a material symbol of a h-piritual truth. Lambs
signify..."

"Then there are military uniforms," Mr. Scogan went on. "When
scarlet and pipe-clay were abandoned for khaki, there were some
who trembled for the future of war. But then, finding how
elegant the new tunic was, how closely it clipped the waist, how
voluptuously, with the lateral bustles of the pockets, it
exaggerated the hips; when they realized the brilliant
potentialities of breeches and top-boots, they were reassured.
Abolish these military elegances, standardise a uniform of sack-
cloth and mackintosh, you will very soon find that..."

"Is anyone coming to church with me this morning?" asked Henry
Wimbush. No one responded. He baited his bare invitation. "I
read the lessons, you know. And there's Mr. Bodiham. His
sermons are sometimes worth hearing."

"Thank you, thank you," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith. "I for one
prefer to worship in the infinite church of Nature. How does our
Shakespeare put it? 'Sermons in books, stones in the running
brooks.'" He waved his arm in a fine gesture towards the window,
and even as he did so he became vaguely, but none the less
insistently, none the less uncomfortably aware that something had
gone wrong with the quotation. Something--what could it be?
Sermons? Stones? Books?