Your choir, too, is unusually good," answered the stranger, glancing up at several bonnets bobbing about behind the half-drawn curtains above.
"Finest in the city, sir.

We pride ourselves on our music, and always have the best.

People often come for that alone." And the old gentleman looked as satisfied as if a choir of cherubim and seraphim "continually did cry" in his organ loft.
"Who is the contralto?
That solo was beautifully sung," observed the younger man, pausing to read a tablet on the wall.
"That is Miss Moore.

Been here about a year, and is universally admired.

Excellent young lady couldn't do without her.