And
the official exponents of theology show up rather poorly as helpful
social factors, so far as my study of sociology has gone."
"You seem to have a grudge against the cloth," Thompson hazarded a
shrewd guess. "I wonder why?"
"I'll tell you why," the girl said--and she laughed a little
self-consciously. "My reason tells me it's a silly way to feel. I can
never quite consider theology and the preachers from the same
dispassionate plane that dad can. There's a foolish sense of personal
grievance. Dad had it once, too, but he got over it long ago. I never
have. Perhaps you'll understand if I tell you. My mother was a vain,
silly, emotional sort of person, it seems, with some wonderful capacity
for attracting men. Dad was passionately fond of her. When I was about
three years old my foolish mother ran away with a young minister. After
living with him about six months, wandering about from place to place,
she drowned herself."
Thompson listened to this recital of human frailty in wonder at the calm
way in which Sophie Carr could speak to him, a stranger, of a tragedy so
intimate. She stopped a second.
"Dad was all broken up about it," she continued. "He loved my mother
with all her weaknesses--and he's a man with a profound knowledge of and
tolerance for human weaknesses.
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