“As this is Mr. Pierce’s first visit, you’re going to leave the impression we are perfect heathens.” “He’s a rather perfect heathen,” I said mostly to myself—a poor, out-loud habit, developed, I imagine, from too many solitary hours in a garret. Freezing in realisation before looking up and finding everyone’s eyes upon me, I added, “Meaning, I don’t believe he’ll mind anything too unorthodox.” Bother. I’m a perfect heathen.
