"He ought to be _arrested_! I don't know why
such a man is allowed at large!"
She was fairly panting in her anger. It was as if he had put her to
shame before an assembly.
Courtland turned wonderingly toward her.
"He is outrageous!" she went on. "He has no _right_! I _hate_ him!"
Courtland watched her in amazement. "You can't mean the minister!"
"Minister! He's no minister!" declared Gila. "He's a fanatic! One of the
worst kind. He's a fake! He's uncanny! The idea of daring to talk about
God that way as if He was always around every where! I think it's
_awful_! I should think he'd have everybody in hysterics!"
Gila's voice sounded as if she were almost there herself. She flung
along by his side with a vindictive little click of her high-heeled
boots and a prance of her whole elaborate little person that showed she
was fairly bristling with wrath.
But Courtland's voice was sad with disappointment. "Then you didn't feel
it, after all! I was hoping you did."
"Feel what?" she asked, sharply. "I felt something, yes. What did you
mean?" Her voice had softened wonderfully, and she drew near to him and
slipped her hand again within his arm. There was an eagerness in her
voice that Courtland wholly misinterpreted.
"Feel the Presence!" He said it gently, reverently, as if it were a
magic word, a password to a mutual understanding.
"Presence?" she said, bewildered. "Yes, I felt a presence, but what
presence did you mean?" Her voice was soft with meaning.
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