s talking to me
about the troubles of the poor you were rowing Johnnie Stubbs about on
the mere. That was just the difference between you and him."

"Oh! there wasn't much in that," replied Christopher; "if you had been
kind to me that day, and had let me talk to you, I am afraid that poor
Johnnie Stubbs would have had to remain on dry land. I merely took the
advice of the great man who said, 'If you can not do what you like, do
good.' But I'd rather have done what I liked, all the same."

"That is just like you, Chris! You never own up to your good points."

"Yes, I do; but I don't own up to my good points that exist solely in
your imagination."

"You reckon up your virtues just as Cousin Maria reckons up her luggage
on a journey; she always says she has so many packages, and so many that
don't count. And your virtues seem to be added up in the same style."

Christopher was too shy to enjoy talking about himself; nevertheless, he
was immensely pleased when Elisabeth was pleased with him. "Let us
wander back to our muttons," he said, "which, being interpreted, means
Miss Herbert and Tremaine. What sort of people are the Herberts, by the
way? Is Mrs. Herbert a lady?"

Elisabeth thought for a moment. "She is the sort of person who
pronounces the 't' in often."

"I know exactly; I believe 'genteel' is the most correct adjective for
that type. Is she good-looking?"

"Very; she was the pencil sketch for Felicia."

"About how old?"

"It is difficult to tell. She is one of the women who are sixty in the
sun and thirty in the shade, like the thermometer in spring. I should
think she is really an easy five-and-forty, accelerated by limited means
and an exacting conscience. She is always bothering about sins and
draughts and things of that kind. I believe she thinks that everything
you do will either make your soul too hot or your body too cold."

"You are severe on the excellent lady."

"I try not to be, because I think she is really good in her way; but her
religion is such a dreadfully fussy kind of religion it makes me angry.
It seems to caricature the whole thing. She appears to think that
Christianity is a sort of menu of moral fancy-dishes, which one is bound
to swallow in a certain prescribed order."

"Poor dear woman!"

"When people like Mrs. Herbert talk about religion," Elisabeth went on,
"it is as bad as reducing the number of the fixed stars to pounds,
shillings, and pence; just as it is when people