They returned late in the afternoon, and their greeting was of
the warmest.
"Dear old boy," Maurice cried, "you don't know how glad I am to get at
you again. Where in the world have you kept yourself?"
"Just at the last," Philip responded, "I've been down to Montfield."
"Down home? Have you really? How is everybody? I hope your mother is
well."
"She is very well, and I do not remember anybody that we know who
isn't. I went down to see Mr. Wentworth, and found that he is already
pledged to Mr. Strathmore."
"Is he really? How did that happen?"
"It seems that he is a cousin of that Mrs. Gore where we heard that
heathen, and she is greatly interested in Mr. Strathmore's election.
Mr. Wentworth promised her his vote. How people are carried away by
that man. Mr. Wentworth told me that he looked upon him as the greatest
man in the church to-day."
"It is strange," Maurice assented absently; "but he is a man of great
personal fascination."
"To me," Philip retorted, "he is a whited sepulchre. His doctrine of
mental reservation amounts to nothing less than that a priest is at
liberty to believe anything he pleases if he will only conform
outwardly.
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