All that autumn and winter Miss Horne and Miss Hobart wrestled with Satan for the souls of the hamlet; incidentally they wrestled with him for Sylvia's soul, but she scratched the event by ceasing to appear at all in church, and intercourse between them became less frequent; the friends of Miss Horne and Miss Hobart had to be all or nothing, and not the least divergence of belief or opinion, manners or policy, was tolerated by these two bigoted old ladies. The congregation, notwithstanding their efforts, remained stationary, much to Philip's satisfaction. "The truth is," he said, "that the measure of their power is the pocket. Every scamp in the parish who thinks it will pay him to go to church is going to church. The others don't go at all or walk over to Medworth." Her contemplation of the progress of religion in Green Lanes, which, however much she affected to laugh at it, could not help interesting Sylvia on account of her eccentric friend the vicar, was temporarily interrupted by a visit from Gertrude Iredale. Remembering what Miss Ashley had told her, Sylvia had insisted upon Philip's asking his sister to stay, and he had obviously been touched by her suggestion. Gertrude perhaps had also taken some advice from Miss Ashley, for she was certainly less inclined to wonder what her brother would do about his clothes the year after next. She could not, however, altogether keep to herself her criticism of the housewifery at The Old Farm, a simple business in Sylvia's eyes, which consisted of letting the cook do exactly as she liked, with what she decided were very satisfactory results. "But it's so extravagant," Gertrude objected. "Well, Philip doesn't grumble. We can afford to pay a little extra every week to have the house comfortably run." "But the principle is so bad," Gertrude insisted. "Oh, principle," said Sylvia in an airy way, which must have been galling to her sister-in-law. "I don't believe in principles. Principles are only excuses for what we want to think or what we want to do." "Don't you believe in abstract morality?" Gertrude asked, taking off her glasses and gazing with weak and earnest eyes at Sylvia. "I don't believe in anything abstract," Sylvia replied. "How strange!" the other murmured. "Goodness me! if I didn't believe in abstract morality I don't know where I should be--or what I should do." Sylvia regarded the potential sinner with amused curiosity. "Do tell me what you might do," she begged. "Would you live with a man without marrying him?" "Please don't be coarse," said Gertrude. "I don't like it." "I could put it much more coarsely," Sylvia said, with a laugh. "Would you--" "Sylvia!" Gertrude whistled through her teeth in an agony of apprehensive modesty. "I entreat you not to continue."