The organ gave one startled trump, and went silent;
the choir stood transfixed.
'You look well standing there, singing in God's holy house,' came the
loud, angry female shout. Everybody turned electrified. A stoutish,
red-faced woman in a black bonnet was standing up denouncing the soloist.
Almost fainting with shock, the congregation realized it. 'You look well,
don't you, standing there singing solos in God's holy house, you,
Goodall. But I said I'd shame you. You look well, bringing your young
woman here with you, don't you? I'll let her know who she's dealing
with. A scamp as won't take the consequences of what he's done.' The
hard-faced, frenzied woman turned in the direction of Fanny. '_That's_
what Harry Goodall is, if you want to know.'
And she sat down again in her seat. Fanny, startled like all the rest,
had turned to look. She had gone white, and then a burning red, under the
attack. She knew the woman: a Mrs. Nixon, a devil of a woman, who beat
her pathetic, drunken, red-nosed second husband, Bob, and her two lanky
daughters, grown-up as they were. A notorious character. Fanny turned
round again, and sat motionless as eternity in her seat.
There was a minute of perfect silence and suspense. The audience was
open-mouthed and dumb; the choir stood like Lot's wife; and Harry, with
his music-sheet, stood there uplifted, looking down with a dumb sort of
indifference on Mrs.
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