"Margot," I said, "Do you believe everything in the Bible?"
I suppose she was expecting some word of love. Two years before, when I had left her, I had kissed her. And now——
"Of course," she said, in surprise.
If she had doubted one jot or tittle of it, I might have been content. Her unthinking acceptation of it all angered me.
"I don't," I growled.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean what I say. I don't believe in the Bible."
I remember so well how she looked—there in the arbor, where she had led me—her eyes wide with surprise and fear. I thought she looked stupid.
"I don't believe in God," I went on.
I expected her to take this announcement quietly. But two years before I had never heard of men who doubted the existence of God, except, of course, the benighted heathen. Margot's hair is almost white now, but I suppose that in all her life, I am the only person she has heard question the teachings of the church.