’Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ said Ross with great exasperation, ’don’t tell me that you think racing’s wicked, surely _you_ don’t believe that because people gamble that the thing itself is wrong; you’ll be going into a Monkery yourself next,’ he said, glaring at me angrily. ’What do you suppose the horses were made capable of such speed for, if they weren’t to run? I suppose you think they ought to be kept in their stables and fed on barley sugar, and you father’s daughter,’ said Ross disgustedly. ’Oh, don’t talk to me, Meg; people like Aunt Amelia and Eustace make me sick. They just stick up a little set of opinions and call it religion. They always say the things _they_ don’t like are wicked; can you see Aunt Amelia ski-ing or hunting? Would she exchange that disgusting fydo for my bulldog? But because I like those things they both say that I’m "worldly" and she calls me her "poor misguided nephew." No, my dear girl, it won’t wash, that sort of rot does all the harm. And then the parsons! with their everlasting "venture to think." When a chap in the pulpit gets up and says, "My brethren, I venture to think," I always want to heave a hymn book at him and say, "Oh, don’t venture such a lot, get on with it." I never venture. I just think and say so, why can’t he?’ ’Yes,’ I murmured, ’I’m sure you do, Ross!’ ’Look at the stuff they preach, too. Always harping on the mild and simple tack! Who wants to be mild or simple? How can they think that will attract _men_?’ ’Or women,’ I said as he paused for breath. ’No, or women,’ agreed my brother. ’But, Ross, it does say He was meek and gentle.’ ’But not mild, that’s the hymn, and they only put it in to rhyme with "child." I hate hymns, except "Onward Christian Soldiers," and "Fight the Good Fight," and decent ones like that. Why do parsons nearly always leave out the other side of Him? Think how strong He was, and strong people are always gentle. Look at daddy. Could you have a stronger man, mentally, morally, or physically, and yet he is most extraordinarily gentle sometimes; meek, too, about some things. I wish I was!’ ’I were, Ross.’ ’Oh, no! you weren’t, _never_ Meg. I will not be reproved for grammar by a twin. Oh, yes, you were meek once, about some bluebells. You’re rather a sweet kid sometimes; I mean you used to be,’ my brother corrected hastily, lest I should be puffed up with pride. ’Now, if _I_ went into a Monkery,’ he continued, being thoroughly wound up, ’it might be a good thing. It would be discipline for me. I should never be able to say prayers all day. I’d always be falling foul over the law of obedience, and if there were a dog fight outside I’d have to go and separate them. It would take me years to get to what Eustace is now and—oh these nuts have got bugs in them, pass me an apple.’