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kissing her again, said in a low, almost frightened voice:
You are very like what your father was.
But just at that moment Mr. FaneSmith asked some sudden question,
and his wife, starting and coloring, as though she had been
detected in wrongdoing, hurriedly and nervously devoted herself to
what seemed to Erica a distractingly roundabout answer. By the
time it was fairly ended, dinner was announced, and the strangeness
of the atmosphere of this new home struck more and more upon Erica
and chilled her a little. The massive grandeur of the old oak
furniture, the huge oil paintings, which she wanted really to
study, the great silver candelabra, even the two footmen and the
solemn old butler seemed to oppress her. The luxury was almost
burdensome. It was a treat indeed to see and use beautiful glass
and china, and pleasant to have beautiful fruit and flowers to look
at, but Erica was a bohemian and hated stiff ceremony Her heart
failed her when she thought of sitting down night after night to
such an interminable meal. Worse still, she had taken a dislike to
her host. Her likes and dislikes were always characterized by
Highland intensity, and something in her aunt's husband seemed to
rub her the wrong way. Mr. FaneSmith was a retired Indian judge,
a man much respected in the religious world, and in his way a
really good man; but undoubtedly his sympathies were narrow and his
creed hard. Closely intwined with much true and active
Christianity, he had allowed to spring up a choking overgrowth of
hard criticism, of intolerance, of domineering dogmatism. He was
one of those men who go about the world, trying, not to find points
of union with all men, but ferreting out the most trifling points
of divergence. He did this with the best intentions, no doubt, but
as Erica's whole view of life, and of Christian life in particular,
was the direct opposite of his, their natures inevitably jarred.
She knew that it was foolish to expect every Christian household to
be equal to the Osmonds', but nevertheless a bitter sense of
disappointment stole over her that evening. Where was the sense of
restful unity which she had looked forward to? The new atmosphere
felt strange, the new order of life this luxurious easy life was
hard to comprehend.
To add to her dislike Mr. FaneSmith was something of an epicure
and had a most fastidious palate. Now, Erica's father thought
scarcely anything about what he ate it was indeed upon record that
he had once in a fit of absence dined upon a plate of scraps
intended for Friskarina, while engaged in some scientific
discussion with the professor. Mr. FaneSmith, on the other hand,
though convinced that the motto of all atheists was Let us eat and

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