“Yes, I would. I don’t know how the dispute with the Brentwood–Baldwins came about, but there was a pew near the President’s which both the Claverings and the Brentwood–Baldwins wanted, and those two pagan daughters of Senator Clavering got it. You ought to have seen the Brentwood–Baldwin girl and those other two girls pass each other last Sunday morning coming out of church; they exchanged looks which were equivalent to a slap in the face.”
“And you wouldn’t have missed seeing it for worlds.”
“For pure love of fighting I never saw your equal, Sara Luttrell.”
“I come by it honestly. I am of as good fighting stock as you are, Richard Baskerville. But the Clavering–Brentwood–Baldwin row is not the only religious war in this town. You know Mrs. James Van Cortlandt Skinner—I know her husband was originally Jim Skinner before he went to glory.”
“Oh, nobody; I just felt it in my bones. Well, Mrs. Skinner has a new and original fad—that woman is clever! She has seen the automobile fad, and the fancy–ball fad, and the monkey–dinner fad, and the dining–on–board–the–Emperor’s–yacht fad, and the exclusive–school fad, and the exclusive–theatrical–performance fad, and the marrying–of–a–daughter–to–a–belted–earl–like–a–thief–in–the–night fad. She has done horse shows and yacht races and dinners to the Ambassador, and now she has outfooted New York and Newport, and left Chicago at the post. She has a private chapel, and she’s going to have a private chaplain!”
“No, I didn’t, Richard, my dear. You see, the Jim Skinners”—Mrs. Luttrell pronounced it as if it were “jimskinners”—“were originally honest Methodists; but these people shed their religion along with their old clothes and plated forks. And now Mrs. Jimskinner has become Mrs. James Van Cortlandt Skinner and an ardent Episcopalian, and so has Gladys Jimskinner, and Gwendolyn Jimskinner, and Lionel Jimskinner, and Harold Jimskinner, and I believe that woman has set her heart on having what she calls an Anglican archbishop in these United States.”
“If she has, I know it was you who put the microbe in her head.”
It was a chance shot, but it hit the white. “I think I did, Richard,” meekly replied Mrs. Luttrell. “Mrs. Jimskinner—I mean Mrs. James Van Cortlandt Skinner—was urging me to join the Order of St. Monica; that’s an order in which widows pledge themselves not to get married again. I told her there wasn’t the least reason for me to join, for, although I’ve never told my age to any living person, I hardly consider myself on the matrimonial list any longer. And then Mrs. Van Cortlandt Skinner told me of the various beautiful brand–new orders in the Church, and said she thought of getting an order founded for one of her boys; the other would have to marry and perpetuate the family. And I suggested a contemplative order with a nice name, like the Order of St. Werewolf.”