The major liked two things high: his game and his church.

Sylvia cared for neither, but had become habituated to both the odours of sanctity and of pheasants; so to Saint Berold's she went in cure of her soul.

Besides, she was fond of Father Curtis, who, if he were every inch a priest, was also every foot of his six feet a man--simple, good, and brave.
However, she found little opportunity, save at her brief confession, for a word with Father Curtis.

His days were full days to the overbrimming, and a fashionable pack was ever at his heels, fawning and shoving and importuning.

It was fashionable to adore Father Curtis, and for that reason she shrank from venturing any demand upon his time, and nobody else at Saint Berold's appealed to her.