She turned toward Mrs. Putney with her explanation, but Putney seemed to have forgotten her, and he turned upon Mr. Gerrish, “How's that drunkard's grave getting along that you've dug for your porter?” Gerrish remained prudently silent. “I know you, Billy. You're all right. You've got the pull on your conscience; we all have, one way or another. Here's Annie Kilburn, come back from Rome, where she couldn't seem to fix it up with hers to suit her, and she's trying to get round it in Hatboro' with good works. Why, there isn't any occasion for good works in Hatboro'. I could have told you that before you came,” he said, addressing Annie directly. “What we want is faith, and lots of it. The church is going to pieces because we haven't got any faith.” His hand slipped from the piano, and he dropped heavily back upon a chair that stood near. The concussion seemed to complete in his brain the transition from his normal dispositions to their opposite, which had already begun. “Bill Gerrish has done more for Hatboro' than any other man in the place. He's the only man that holds the church together, because he knows the value of _faith_.” He said this without a trace of irony, glaring at Annie with fierce defiance. “You come back here, and try to set up for a saint in a town where William B. Gerrish has done--has done more to establish the dry-goods business on a metro-me-tro-politan basis than any other man out of New York or Boston.” He stopped and looked round, mystified, as if this were not the point which he had been aiming at. Lyra broke into a spluttering laugh, and suddenly checked herself. Putney smiled slightly. “Pretty good, eh? Say, where was I?” he asked slyly. Lyra hid her face behind Annie's shoulder. “What's that dress you got on? What's all this about, anyway? Oh yes, I know. _Romeo and Juliet_--Social Union. Well,” he resumed, with a frown, “there's too much _Romeo and Juliet_, too much Social Union, in this town already.” He stopped, and seemed preparing to launch some deadly phrase at Mrs. Wilmington, but he only said, “You're all right, Lyra.” “Mrs. Munger,” said Mr. Gerrish, “we must be going. Good night, ma'am. Mrs. Gerrish, it's time the children were at home.” “Of course it is,” said Putney, watching the Gerrishes getting their children together. He waved his hand after them, and called out, “William Gerrish, you're a man; I honour you.” He laid hold of the piano and pulled himself to his feet, and seemed to become aware, for the first time, of his wife, where she stood with their boy beside her. “What you doing here with that child at this time of night?” he shouted at her, all that was left of the man in his eyes changing into the glare of a pitiless brute. “Why don't you go home? You want to show people what I did to him? You want to publish my shame, do you? Is that it? Look here!”