"Do you believe in hell?" she flung at him.
"I should jolly well think so."
"For children?" Her tone implored comfort.
"I'm afraid so."
"But how can it be fair? They're so little. They don't know right from wrong."
"I knew a kid," he said meditatively, an eye on her tormented face, "only eight—used to act, if you please. Hung about London stage-doors, and bearded managers in their dens for a living. Quick little chap! Father drunk or ill; incapable, anyhow. The child supported them both. I've seen that child kept hanging about three or four hours on end. And what he knew! It made you sick and sorry. He must be twelve by now—getting on, I believe, poor kid! And a cheerful monkey! He's certainly had his hell, though."
She had hardly listened, she was absorbed in her thoughts; but she caught at his last words——
"In this life? Oh, yes! That's cruel enough. But not afterwards? Not eternal damnation! I don't mind it for myself so much—but for a baby that can't understand why——It isn't possible, is it?"
He began to laugh jollily.
"Alwynne—you utter fool! Don't you believe in God?"