horrible in theology, or metaphysics, or whatever it is. But I do
profess to know when a man has made a hit, whether in theology or
anything else; and I perceive quite clearly that your Mr. Holland--well,
not your Mr. Holland, has made a distinct hit. What sort of face is that
you're making at me? Oh, I see. It's the face of the orthodox at the
mention of something not quite orthodox. Pshut! don't be a goose,
Phyllis."

"I don't intend. Have I not told you that I'm not going to marry Mr.
Holland?"

"That is like one of the phrases which you give to your father, so that
the people might think him clever. Orthodox! Who cares nowadays for what
is dully orthodox? Who ever heard of a hero in orthodoxy nowadays? The
thing is impossible. There may be, of course, thousands of orthodox
heroes, but one never hears anything of them. The planets Jupiter and
Saturn and Mercury and Mars and the rest of them come and go at their
appointed seasons, and no one ever gives them a second thought, poor old
respectable things! but the moment a comet appears in the sky everyone
rushes out to gaze at it, and the newspapers deal with it from day to
day, and the illustrated papers give its portrait. Nothing could be more
unorthodox than your comet. Oh, Phyllis, my child, don't talk nowadays
of orthodoxy or the other--what do they call it?--heterodoxy. Mr.
Holland's name will be in everyone's mouth for the next year at least,
and if his bishop or a friendly church warden prosecutes him, and the
thing is worked up properly, he ought to be before the public for the
next five years."

"Oh, Ella!"