'
'Is there not a Mr Maurice who is a friend of your father?'
'Oh, yes, a great friend.'
'He is not High Church nor Low Church?'
'No, not exactly.'
'What is he, then? What does he believe?'
'Well, I can hardly say; he does not believe that anybody will be
burnt in a brimstone lake for ever.'
'That is what he does not believe,' interposed Clara.
'He believes that Socrates and the great Greeks and Romans who acted
up to the light that was within them were not sent to hell. I think
that is glorious, don't you?'
'Yes, but that also is something he does not believe. What is there
in him which is positive? What has he distinctly won from the
unknown?'
'Ah, Miss Hopgood, you ought to hear him yourself; he is wonderful.
I do admire him so much; I am sure you would like him.'
'If you do not go home on Saturday,' said Mrs Hopgood, 'we shall be
pleased if you will have dinner with us on Sunday; we generally go
for a walk in the afternoon.'
Frank hesitated, but at that moment Madge rose from the sofa. Her
hair was disarranged, and she pushed its thick folds backward. It
grew rather low down on her forehead and stood up a little on her
temples, a mystery of shadow and dark recess. If it had been
electrical with the force of a strong battery and had touched him, he
could not have been more completely paralysed, and his half-erect
resolution to go back on Saturday was instantly laid flat.
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