’Lydia, he can’t be good if he does his best to ruin people’s souls.’

’I don’t know anything about that, Mary.  Whatever he says, he says because he believes it and thinks it right.  Why, there’s Mr. Grail thinks in the same way, I believe; at all events, he never goes to church or chapel.  And he’s a friend of Mr. Ackroyd’s.’

‘But we don’t know anything about Mr. Grail.’

’We don’t know much, but it’s quite enough to talk to him for a few minutes to know he’s a man that wouldn’t say or do anything wrong.’

‘He must be a wonderful man, Lydia.’

These Sunday conversations were always fruitful of trouble.  Mary was prepared by her morning and afternoon exercises to be more aggressive and uncompromising than usual.  But the present difficulty appeared a graver one than any that had yet risen between them.  Lydia had never spoken in the tone which marked her rejoinder: 

’Really, Mary, it’s as if you couldn’t put faith in no one!  You know I don’t feel the same as you do about religion and such things, and I don’t suppose I ever shall.  When I like people, I like them; I can’t ask what they believe and what they don’t believe.  We’d better not talk about it any more.’

Mary’s face assumed rather a hard look.

‘Just as you like, my dear,’ she said.

There ensued an awkward silence, which Lydia at length broke by speech on some wholly different subject.  Mary with difficulty adapted herself to the change; tea was finished rather uncomfortably.

It was six o’clock.  Lydia, hearing the hour strike, knew that Ackroyd would be waiting at the end of Walnut Tree Walk.  She was absent-minded, halting between a desire to go at once, and tell him that they could not come, and a disinclination not perhaps very clearly explained.  The minutes went on.  It seemed to be decided for her that he should learn the truth by their failure to join him.

Church bells began to sound.  Mary rose and put on her hat, then, taking up the devotional books she had with her, offered her hand as if to say good-bye.

‘But,’ said Lydia in surprise, ‘I’m going with you.’

‘I didn’t suppose you would,’ the other returned quietly.

‘But haven’t you had tea with me?’

Mary had not now to learn that her friend held a promise inviolable; her surprise would have been great if Lydia had allowed her to go forth alone.  She smiled.

‘Will there be nice singing?’ Lydia asked, as she prepared herself quickly.  ‘I do really like the singing, at all events, Mary.’

The other shook her head, sadly.

They left the house and turned towards Kennington Road.  Before Lydia had gone half a dozen steps she saw that Ackroyd was waiting at the end of the street.  She felt a pang of self-reproach; it was wrong of her to have allowed him to stand in miserable uncertainty all this time; she ought to have gone out at six o’clock.  In a low voice she said to her companion: