“I did not recognize it,” said the Professor, “as a distinctly fishing community--from the audience; no, not from that audience.” “Not many of my drunkards, for instance, sir? Not a strong salt-fish perfume in the First Church? Nor a whiff of old New England rum anywhere?” “The atmosphere was irreproachable,” returned the Professor with a keen look. Bayard glanced at Helen, who had been sitting quietly on the sofa beside him. Her eyes returned his merriment. “Father!” she exclaimed, “Mr. Bayard does not recant. He is proud of it. He glories in his heresy. He is laughing at his martyrdom--and at us. I think you’d better ‘let up’ on him awhile.” “Let up, Helen? Let up?” complained her mother. “That is a very questionable expression. Ask your father, my dear, if it is good English. And I’m sure Mr. Bayard will be a _gentlemanly_ heretic, whatever he is.” Helen laughed outright, now. Bayard joined her; and the four drew breath and found themselves at their ease. “For my part,” said Helen unexpectedly, “I should like to see Mr. Bayard’s church--if he would stoop to invite us.... I suppose,” she added thoughtfully, “one reason saints don’t stoop, is for fear the halo should tumble off. It must be so inconvenient! Don’t you ever have a stiff neck, Mr. Bayard?” “Why, _Helen_!” cried Mrs. Carruth in genuine horror. She hastened to atone for her daughter’s rudeness to a young man who already had enough to bear. “I will come and bring Helen myself, Mr. Bayard, to hear you preach--that is, if you would like to have us.” “Pray don’t!” protested Bayard. “The Professor’s hair would turn black again in a single night. It won’t do for you to recognize an outlaw like me, you know. Why, Fenton and I haven’t met since he came here; unless at the post-office. I understand my position. Don’t feel any delicacy about it. _I_ don’t. I can’t stop for that! I am too busy.” The Professor of Theology colored a little. “The ladies of my family are quite free to visit any of the places of worship around us,” he observed with some dignity. “They are not bound by the same species of ecclesiastical etiquette”-- “We must be going, Mother,” said Helen abruptly. Her cheeks were blazing; her eyes met Bayard’s with a ray of indignant sympathy which went to his head like wine. He felt the light, quick motion of her breath; the folds of her summer dress--he could not have told what she wore--fell over the carpet lounge; the hem of the dress touched his boot, and just covered the patch on it from sight. He had but glanced at her before. He looked at her now; her heightened color became her richly; her hand--she wore a driving-glove--lay upon the cretonne sofa pillow; she had picked a single flower as she came up Mrs. Granite’s garden walk. Bayard was amused to see that she had instinctively taken a deep purple pansy with a heart of gold. A little embarrassed, Helen held out the pansy. “I like them,” she said. “They make faces at me.”