“Well,” said Mr. Gray, apologetically, “it was a social time, you know.”

“Yes, I know it, father.  That is why I went.  Are not people usually most sociable about the things that interest them most?  There was a company of people, professedly born from above and expecting soon to see the very glory of God.  They take it very coolly, at all events.  I believe it is a sham.”

“Oh, Hubert,” groaned his father, “don’t say that.”

“I don’t mean,” said Hubert quickly, “that Jesus is a sham.  I believe,” and his deep eyes softened, “that He is the most real fact in the universe.  But the belief of those people, father!  That sort of gathering is what Doctor Schoolman calls ‘relaxation,’ and I think he is right.  I am convinced that Christ is irksome to them; a subject to be endured on Sundays, but to enjoy relaxation from at other times.  Am I right?”

“Hubert,” said Mr. Gray, slowly, “I believe you are partly right.  But be deliberate and generous in your conclusions.  Do not judge us too hastily or hotly.”

Hubert winced as his father included himself in his own sweeping indictment.  Mr. Gray went on: 

“Some of us have known Him, even as you do, in earlier days.  But we have lost the brightness of our vision through”—­he hesitated—­“through sin.  We have followed afar off, and are very poor representatives now.  Be patient, and it may be the warm zeal of such as you will quicken us again.”

He looked at his son appealingly.  Hubert’s generous heart melted.

“Forgive me, father,” he said humbly.  “I have no right to judge anybody.  Forget my tirade if you can.  And I,” he added with a faint smile, “will try to forget the Social.”

CHAPTER XI

MR. BOND’S LECTURE

Hubert recovered from the cold bath into which he had been thrown like a Spartan babe by his first contact with church sociability.  His, as a new creature, was a vigorous constitution, and was destined to out-live many a shock incident to the earthly career of a heaven-born man.  Both he and Winifred returned to their joy and calm, and were looking forward eagerly to Mr. Bond’s lectures.

On the day of his arrival Mr. Gray came home to luncheon with an announcement.

“My dear,” he said to his wife, “Mr. Selton tells me that his wife has unexpectedly been called to Chicago by her mother’s illness, and they will be unable to entertain Mr. Bond.  He suggested that we might like to do so.”

Winifred and Hubert looked up with animation.

“Indeed!  And you told him?” asked Mrs. Gray, with a housewifely instinct of defense against invasion.

“I told him,” said Mr. Gray, “that I knew no reason why we could not do so, and that it would be a great pleasure.  I told him, however, that I should ask you about it, and ’phone him if there were any arrangement to prevent it.”