“You did?” Her voice seemed to search for insincerity. “Well, thank you. That’s all. It may mean a new life to me. I’m always trying to believe; always! Aren’t you?”
“I don’t know,” he mumbled. “How do you mean?”
“Well—you know!” she said, as if impatiently smashing his pretence of not understanding her. “But perhaps you do believe?”
He thought he detected scorn for a facile believer. “No,” he said, “I don’t.”
“And it doesn’t worry you? Honestly? Don’t be clever! I hate that!”
“No,” he said.
“Don’t you ever think about it?”
“No. Not often.”
“Charlie does.”
“Has he told you?” (“So she talks to the Sunday too!” he reflected.)