"
I dressed, and had my breakfast, and drove to St. Bartholomew's. It
was a November morning, bright and sunny, as warm as summer; and it
is always such a pleasure to see that goodly company of ladies and
gentlemen, so perfectly groomed, so perfectly mannered, breathing a
sense of peace and well being. Ah, that wonderful sense of well
being! "God's in His Heaven, all's right with the world!" And what a
curious contrast with the Labor Temple! For a moment I doubted
Carpenter; surely these ladies with their decorative bonnets, their
sweet perfumes, their gowns of rose and lilac and other pastel
shades--surely they were more important life-products than women in
frowsy and dowdy imitation clothes! Surely it was better to be
serene and clean and pleasant, than to be terrible and bewildered,
sick and quarrelsome! I was seized by a frenzy, a sort of
instinctive animal lust for this life of ease and prettiness. No
matter if those dirty, raucous-voiced hordes of strikers, and others
of their "ilk"--as the "Times" phrased it--did have to wash my
clothes and scrub my floors, just so that _I_ stayed clean and
decent!
I bowed to a score or two of the elegant ladies, and to their
escorts in shiny top hats and uncreased kid gloves, and went into
the exquisite church with its glowing stained glass window, and
looked up over the altar--and there stood Carpenter! I tell you, it
gave me a queer shock.
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