"Mary Blossom," John Aymer went on, "is a fine girl, and she's an ambitious girl. She has done well herself, got a first-rate education of its kind, made herself a first-rate all-round young woman, capable of doing--within limits--anything she sets her hand to. Now--she's as dead stuck on Pippin as he is on her--" "John! What language! She adores him, if that is what you mean." "Well, she adores him, then--doesn't sound half as real--but she doesn't adore the line of life he is laying out for himself and her. I don't believe she takes any more stock in it than--than I should. She would like to see her husband a church member in regular standing: a vestryman; doing no end of pious work, you know--he has to do _that_ or bust; even I can see that--but doing it in a regular respectable kind of way: chairman of Boards--what? Frock coat, handsome rooms, subcommittees, secretaries, that kind of thing. She wants to see him a leader, and she believes he can be. This picking up a boy here and a tramp there, singing and praying, hurrah boys and God bless you, doesn't cut much ice with Mary. Poor little soul, she cried an hour on Lucy's shoulder the other night. Lucy cried, too, of course; water works all over the house, almost drowned me out." "John!" "Well, sir, that kind of thing--the chairman, frock coat, committee-room thing, is what Mary wants for her husband; and who can say but she's right? I don't say she is, mind! I'm not a spiritual kind of man, and I know it; but I do say that Pippin ought to realize how she feels and the kind of life she would choose. Then he can face it, squarely, and make his own decision, knowing what it means to her. You say--" he turned to his wife, who was listening intently--"he's had no education. Granted--in a way! But you can't keep Pippin from education any more than you can keep a dog from water when he's thirsty. (Nip's bowl is empty, by the way, Lucy; might cry into that next time, what?) I don't say it will be book education; much good my books have done me, and as you say, Lucy, my English resembles a tinker's--well, thought it, if you didn't say it--well--what do you say, Reverend?" Lawrence Hadley threw his head back with a little reversed nod that was all his own. "Give me a minute, Jack! I'm assimilating! Give me a minute!" He took a minute, whistling "Am I a soldier of the Cross?" through slowly and carefully. Then he took three more in silence, walking slowly up and down the room, the others watching him anxiously.