If they cannot love, they can at least be friendly.

They can tolerate, as philosophers; pity, as Christians; and, finding just where and how the burden of an ill-assorted union galls the least, can then and there strap it on their backs, and walk on, not only without complaint, but sometimes in a cheerful and hilarious spirit.
Not a word of all this thinks our friend John, as he sits longing, aspiring, and pouring out his heart, day after day, in letters that interrupt Lillie in the all-important responsibility of getting her wardrobe fitted.
Shall we think this smooth little fair-skinned Lillie is a cold-hearted monster, because her heart does not beat faster at these letters which she does not understand, and which strike her as unnecessarily prolix and prosy?
Why should John insist on telling her his feelings and opinions on a vast variety of subjects that she does not care a button for?
She doesn't know any thing about ritualism and anti-ritualism; and, what's more, she doesn't care.

She hates to hear so much about religion.

She thinks it's pokey.

John may go to any church he pleases, for all her.