know St. Paul. His epistles don't speak of a wife, but I've always
imagined he had one, and of the kind who didn't agree with you, Lizzie,
that women should keep silent and learn of their husbands at home--
like you learn of yours."

The white ribbon strings which tied Miss Gibbie's broad-brimmed white
straw hat under her chin were unfastened and thrown back over her
shoulders, the sprig muslin skirt was spread out carefully, and the
turkey-wing fan lifted from her lap, but for a moment Mrs. Pryor did not
speak.

Her face, not given to flushing, had colored at Miss Gibbie's words. She
pressed her lips firmly together and looked around the room as if asking
for Christian forbearance for so irreverent a speech as had just been
heard; then she rose.

"I do not care to discuss St. Paul. When a woman sits in judgment upon
one of the disciples of the Lord--"

"Don't get your Biblical history mixed, Lizzie. St. Paul was not one of
the twelve. He was an apostle, a writer of epistles. I admire him, but,
from his assertions concerning women, he must have had some in his
family who gave him trouble. Whenever you hear a man in public
insisting on keeping women in their place, keeping them down and under,
not letting them do this or letting them do that, you may be certain he
is a managed man. But if you won't discuss St. Paul with a sinner such
as I, we willgo back to the person you were discussing, and I will
discuss her with Christians such as you. Who was it? If it wasn't Mary
Cary I will give ten dollars to your heathen fund." She looked around
the room and then at Mrs. Webb. "Was it Mary Cary, Virginia?"