“Is the most unfortunate and most misunderstood piece of literature ever written,” he interrupted. “And the Church, well, I regard it as the greatest fraud ever perpetrated upon the human race.”
“You mean that to apply to every church?”
“It fits them all.”
She studied his face for a few moments. He returned her glance as steadily. But their thoughts were running in widely divergent channels. The conversational topic of the moment had no interest whatsoever for the man. But this brilliant, sparkling girl––there was something in those dark eyes, that soft voice, that brown hair––by what anomaly did this beautiful creature come out of desolate, mediaeval Simití?
“Mr. Ames, you do not know what religion is.”
“No? Well, and what is it?”
“It is that which binds us to God.”
“And that?”
“Love.”
No, he knew not the meaning of the word. Or––wait––did he? His thought broke restraint and flew wildly back––but he caught it, and rudely forced it into its wonted channel. But, did he love his fellow-men? Certainly not! What would that profit him in dollars and cents? Did he love his wife? his 128 children? The thought brought a cynical laugh to his lips. Carmen looked up at him wonderingly. “You will have to, you know,” she said quixotically.