"Not at all," he contradicted. "For a long time I've objected to your friendship with Dorward, but, knowing you were too headstrong to listen to my advice, I said nothing. This letter makes it impossible to keep silent any longer about my wishes." "But you don't really believe that Dorward and I are having an affair?" she gasped. Philip made an impatient gesture. "What a foolish question! Do you suppose that if I had for one moment thought such a thing I shouldn't have spoken before? No, no, my dear, it's all very unpleasant, but you must see that as soon as I am made aware, however crude the method of bringing it to my knowledge, that people are talking about you and my vicar, I have no alternative but to forbid you to do anything that will make these tongues go on wagging." "To forbid me?" she repeated. Philip bowed ironically, Sylvia thought; the gesture, infinitely slight and unimportant as it was, cut the last knot. "I shall have to tell Mr. Dorward about this letter and explain to him," she said. Philip hesitated for a moment. "Yes, I think that would be the best thing to do," he agreed. Sylvia regarded him curiously. "You don't mind his knowing that you showed it to me?" she asked. "Not at all," said Philip. She laughed, and he took alarm at the tone. "I thought you were going to be sensible," he began, but she cut him short. "Oh, I am, my dear man. Don't worry." Now that the unpleasant scene was over, he seemed anxious for her sympathy. "I'm sorry this miserable business has occurred, but you understand, don't you, that it's been just as bad for me as for you?" "Do you want me to apologize?" Sylvia demanded, in her brutal way. "No, of course not. Only I thought perhaps you might have shown a little more appreciation of my feelings." "Ah, Philip, if you want that, you'll have to let me really go wrong with Dorward." "Personally I consider that last remark of yours in very bad taste; but I know we have different standards of humor." Sylvia found Dorward in the church, engaged in an argument with Cassandra about the arrangement of the chrysanthemums for Michaelmas. "I will not have them like this," he was saying. "But we always putts them fan-shaped like that." "Take them away," he shouted, and, since Cassandra still hesitated, he flung the flowers all over the church. The short conversation that followed always remained associated in Sylvia's mind with Cassandra's grunts and her large base elevated above the pews, while she browsed hither and thither, bending over to pick up the scattered chrysanthemums. "Mr. Dorward, I want to ask you something very serious." He looked at her sharply, almost suspiciously. "Does it make you very much happier to have faith?" "Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes," he said, brushing petals from his cassock. "But would it make me?" "I expect so--I expect so," he said, still brushing and trying with that shy curtness to avoid the contact of reality. "Well, how can I get faith?"