Then his reformation would be more obvious."
"Yes; I can appreciate that. Does she still look after his art and
literature?"
"That phase has changed a little. She thinks now that he ought to be
stimulated, if anything--that he ought to read George Eliot. She's
put _Middlemarch_ and _Romola_ on his shelf. She says that
he looks like Tito Malemma."
Sewell rose. "Well, I don't see but what your supplement is a very
demoralising element. I shall never dare to tell Mrs. Sewell what
you've said."
"Oh, she knows it," cried Miss Vane. "We've agreed that you will
counteract any temptation that Lemuel may feel to abuse his
advantages by the ferociously self-denying sermons you preach at him
every Sunday."
"Do I preach at him? Do you notice it?" asked Sewell nervously.
"Notice it?" laughed Miss Vane. "I should think your whole
congregation would notice it. You seem to look at nobody else."
"I know it! Since he began to come, I can't keep my eyes off him. I
do deliver my sermons at him. I believe I write them at him! He has
an eye of terrible and exacting truth. I feel myself on trial before
him. He holds me up to a standard of sincerity that is killing me.
Mrs. Sewell was bad enough; I was reasonably bad myself; but this!
Couldn't you keep him away? Do you think it's exactly decorous to
let your man-servant occupy a seat in your family pew? How do you
suppose it looks to the Supreme Being?"
Miss Vane was convulsed.
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