As they passed Our Saviour's Church he asked her if she liked to go to
church. She said yes--didn't he?
"Oh, no, not very often."
That was not nice of him.
He bowed smilingly. If she said so, of course. The fact of the matter was
that he had received a rude shock once; it sounded silly, it was only a
bagatelle, but it proved of far-reaching effect. He was sitting in this
very church on an occasion; a high mass was being celebrated. The minister
was all right; he was doing splendidly. He was even eloquent; he spoke
convincingly, with feeling and pathos. But in the middle of a most
stirring peroration in which he, carried away in an outburst of spiritual
fervour, had meant to shout: "Jews and Gentiles!" his tongue had tripped
and he had said: "Gents and Jewtiles! _Gents and Jewtiles!_--Imagine
these silly words hurled over the heads of the congregation in a loud,
sonorous voice! And the poor fellow stood there in full daylight and could
not get away from his miserable blunder. I assure you, it shocked me like
a cold shower!"
It sounded genuine as he spoke, not at all like an episode invented for
the occasion. Was it not possible that a particularly sensitive soul could
be seriously shaken by such a grotesque and silly mishap? Aagot could very
well understand it; and at the same time she had to laugh over that
miserable "Gents and Jewtiles," which she repeated over and over.
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