"It's a practical question with me now. On its answer depends whether I come with you or stay here—by Monseigneur in the church."
Basil said something professional—something about nerves and temporary strain. But he performed this homage to medical etiquette in a rather perfunctory fashion. He had never seen a woman more composed or more obviously and perfectly healthy. Sophy smiled and went on:
"But if I live, I'm sure at least of being able to think and able to remember. It comes to a gamble, doesn't it? It's just possible I might get more; it's quite likely—I think it's probable—I should lose even what I have now."
"I think you're probably right about the chances of the gamble," he told her, "though no doubt certainty is out of place—or at least one doesn't talk about it. Shall I tell you what science says?"
"No," said Sophy, smiling faintly. "Science thinks in multitudes—and I'm thinking of the individual to-night. Even Lady Meg never made much of science, you know."
"Do you remember the day when I heard you your Catechism in the avenue at Morpingham?"
"Yes, I remember. Does the Catechism hold good in Kravonia, though?"
"It continues, anyhow, a valuable document in its bearing on this life. You remember the mistake you made, I dare say?"
"I've never forgotten it. It's had something to do with it all," said Sophy. "That's how you, as well as Lord Dunstanbury, come in at the beginning as you do at the end."
"Has it nothing to do with the question now—putting it in any particular phraseology you like?" In his turn he pointed at the smoky lantern. "That's not life," he said, growing more earnest, yet smiling. "That's now—just here and now—and, yes, it's very smoky." He waved his hand over the darkness. "That's life. Dark? Yes, but the night will lift, the darkness pass away; valley and sparkling lake will be there, and the summit of the heaven-kissing hills. Life cries to you with a sweet voice."