I laughed aloud for what she said was so absurdly precise. It was quite true that Miss Pride thought of God as a big man who had, in misty times, drawn up the Ten Commandments, and about Whom it was in bad taste as well as half sacrilegious to talk. She had towards Him the same attitude as she had towards the figures of literature, save those who had died in her lifetime. They wore the same antediluvian halo which, if seen in the cold light of Boston, would have struck one as pretentious. And so, although it was fitting for one to have an acquaintance with God and with Milton, it was not proper to display more than the merest courtesy towards them. It was acceptable to discuss a literary person (or a religious one) to whose name could be affixed the title “Mr.” Thus, Miss Pride spoke of “Mr. James” whom she had met several times and of “Mr. Emerson” and “Mr. Lowell” (she had caught a glimpse of these latter two when she was seven years old); but as no one knew anything about “Mr. Dryden” or “Mr. Goldsmith” it was best not to speak too cordially of them. God was no more adaptable. With no intention of disparaging her, I presented this observation to Hopestill and she agreed with an amiable laugh.

“Yes, God and Shakespeare frighten her half to death. I think that’s why she’s so bent on making you out a literary person. She can’t ignore literature but wants it homemade and by someone she can eat dinner with. She tried very hard once to know Amy Lowell, but she never succeeded.”

My disappointment at this statement was less than my surprise, for I had conceived Boston society as so closely knit that it was as strange that two members of it were not acquainted as it would have been if La Grande Mademoiselle had not known Madame de Maintenon.

By the time we had reached the elder Mrs. McAllister’s house, I had recovered from my choleric attack and could look on Hopestill with equanimity. Fortified also with the knowledge that I could not possibly fare too ill at the Countess’ that evening since Philip would be there by himself, I was almost buoyant.

The old lady always kept us waiting for at least a quarter of an hour in the library after we had been announced. Then, the rustle of her black skirts and the tap of her cane apprised us of her arrival and we stood up as she, after a formal, “Good afternoon, young ladies. I hope you enjoyed your ride,” sat down in a chintz wing chair under a portrait of her husband for whom she still wore mourning, though he had been dead for twenty years. She had no sooner put her feet on the chair’s matching stool than she said, as if it had just occurred to her, “What do you say to a cup of tea? Perhaps they’ll have something in the dining-room for us. My grandson promised to call on me this afternoon and I must have tea for him, you know.”