He sat in a round-backed
wooden chair at an ordinary table, on which were several volumes
ranked on end, a large blotter, and an inkstand. The room was
exclusively his, two bookcases and a few portraits on the walls
being almost the only other furniture; but at this moment it was
shared by Mrs. Otway, who, having some sort of woman's work on her
lap, sat using her fingers and her tongue with steady diligence. She
looked about forty, had a colourless but healthy face, not
remarkable for charm, and was dressed as a sober, self-respecting
gentlewoman. In her accents sounded nothing harsh, nothing vehement;
she talked quietly, without varied inflections, as if thoughtfully
expounding an agreeable theme; such talk might well have inclined a
disinterested hearer to somnolence. But her husband's visage, and
his movements, betokened no such peaceful tendency; every moment he
grew more fidgety, betrayed a stronger irritation.
"I suppose," Mrs. Otway was saying, "there are persons who live
without any religious conscience. It seems very strange; one would
think that no soul could be at rest in utter disregard of its Maker,
in complete neglect of the plainest duties of a creature endowed
with human intelligence--which means, of course, power to perceive
spiritual truths. Yet such persons seem capable of going through a
long life without once feeling the impulse to worship, to render
thanks and praise to the Supreme Being.
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