“Pardon me,” said a frigid voice. “The chapel is somewhat small for two parties. We will incommode you no longer.”
The lecturer was a clergyman, and his audience must be also his flock, for they held prayer-books as well as guidebooks in their hands. They filed out of the chapel in silence. Amongst them were the two little old ladies of the Pension Bertolini—Miss Teresa and Miss Catherine Alan.
“Stop!” cried Mr. Emerson. “There’s plenty of room for us all. Stop!”
The procession disappeared without a word.
Soon the lecturer could be heard in the next chapel, describing the life of St. Francis.
“George, I do believe that clergyman is the Brixton curate.”
George went into the next chapel and returned, saying, “Perhaps he is. I don’t remember.”
“Then I had better speak to him and remind him who I am. It’s that Mr. Eager. Why did he go? Did we talk too loud? How vexatious. I shall go and say we are sorry. Hadn’t I better? Then perhaps he will come back.”
“He will not come back,” said George.
But Mr. Emerson, contrite and unhappy, hurried away to apologize to the Rev. Cuthbert Eager. Lucy, apparently absorbed in a lunette, could hear the lecture again interrupted, the anxious, aggressive voice of the old man, the curt, injured replies of his opponent. The son, who took every little contretemps as if it were a tragedy, was listening also.
“My father has that effect on nearly everyone,” he informed her. “He will try to be kind.”
“I hope we all try,” said she, smiling nervously.