churchman, and
also a Scot, and he returned to the attack, unabashed and unbaffled.
"But surely, Mr. Ingledew," he said in a persuasive voice, "your people,
whoever they are, must at least acknowledge a creator of the universe."

Bertram gazed at him fixedly. His eye was stern. "My people, sir," he
said slowly, in very measured words, unaware that one must not argue
with a clergyman, "acknowledge and investigate every reality they can
find in the universe--and admit no phantoms. They believe in everything
that can be shown or proved to be natural and true; but in nothing
supernatural, that is to say, imaginary or non-existent. They accept
plain facts: they reject pure phantasies. How beautiful those lilies
are, Mrs. Monteith! such an exquisite colour! Shall we go over and look
at them?"

"Not just now," Frida answered, relieved at the appearance of Martha
with the tray in the distance. "Here's tea coming." She was glad of
the diversion, for she liked Bertram immensely, and she could not help
noticing how hopelessly he had been floundering all that afternoon right
into the very midst of what he himself would have called their taboos
and joss-business.

But Bertram was not well out of his troubles yet. Martha brought
the round tray--Oriental brass, finely chased with flowing Arabic
inscriptions--and laid it down on the dainty little rustic table. Then
she handed about the cups. Bertram rose to help her. "Mayn't I do it
for you?" he said, as politely as he would have said it to a lady in her
drawing-room.

"No, thank you, sir," Martha answered, turning red at the offer, but
with the imperturbable solemnity of the well-trained English servant.
She "knew her place," and resented the intrusion. But Bertram had his
own notions of politeness, too, which were not to be lightly set aside
for local class distinctions. He could not see a pretty girl handing
cups to guests without instinctively rising from his seat to assist her.
So, very much to Martha's embarrassment, he continued to give his help
in passing the cake and the bread-and-butter. As soon as she was gone,
he turned round to Philip. "That's a very pretty girl and a very nice
girl," he said simply. "I wonder, now, as you haven't a wife, you've
never thought of marrying her."

The remark fell like a thunderbolt on the assembled group. Even Frida
was shocked. Your most open-minded woman begins to draw a line when you
touch her class prejudices in the matter of marri