Hadn’t that always seemed very extraordinary to Soames? Only last Sunday dear Mr. Scole had been so witty in his sermon, so sarcastic: “For what,” he had said, “shall it profit a man if he gain his own soul, but lose all his property?” That, he had said, was the motto of the middle class; now, what had he meant by that? Of course, it might be what middle-class people believed⁠—she didn’t know; what did Soames think?

He answered abstractedly: “How should I know? Scoles is a humbug, though, isn’t he?” For Bosinney was looking round the table, as if pointing out the peculiarities of the guests, and Soames wondered what he was saying. By her smile Irene was evidently agreeing with his remarks. She seemed always to agree with other people.

Her eyes were turned on himself; Soames dropped his glance at once. The smile had died off her lips.

A humbug? But what did Soames mean? If Mr. Scoles was a humbug, a clergyman⁠—then anybody might be⁠—it was frightful!

“Well, and so they are!” said Soames.

During Aunt Juley’s momentary and horrified silence he caught some words of Irene’s that sounded like: “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here!”

But Swithin had finished his ham.

“Where do you go for your mushrooms?” he was saying to Irene in a voice like a courtier’s; “you ought to go to Smileybob’s⁠—he’ll give ’em you fresh. These little men, they won’t take the trouble!”