'What was that thing the organist played when we went up?' Malcolm asked. 'Rather a nice tune, I thought.'
'It sounded like Hiawatha's wedding feast,' said Rhoda in a worried tone, 'Coleridge Taylor, you know. But I don't think it could have been that.'
'Mr. Lewis was improvising,' said Mrs. Swan. 'There were nearly a hundred communicants, I should think, and I dare say his thoughts wandered. I suppose the music wasn't really so very unsuitable, in a way; many Indians are Christians, aren't they?'
'These were Red Indians, surely,' said Malcolm.
They seemed to be getting into rather deep water, so Mabel changed the subject by mentioning that there was to be a procession at the eleven o'clock service.
Barbara Pym, Less Than Angels.
