Clare sat down again and began to laugh pleasantly.
"What am I to do with you, Louise? Are you five or fifty? You want to discuss Meredith with me—(not that I shall let you, my child—don't think I approve of all this reading—I did it myself at your age, you see) and five minutes later you look at me round-eyed because I've forgotten my Joshua or my Judges! Kings? I beg your pardon; Kings be it! Never mind, Louise. Tell me about the Witch of Endor."
"Only that she called up Samuel, I meant, from the dead."
Louise was evidently abstracted; she was picking her words.
"Don't you believe it, Miss Hartill, quite?"
"It's the Old Testament, after all," temporised Clare. She began to see Louise's difficulty. She had no beliefs herself but she thought she would find out how fourteen handled the problem.
"Then the New is different? There was Dorcas, you know, and the widow's son. That is all true, Miss Hartill?"
Clare fenced.
"Many people think so."
"I want to know the truth," said Louise tensely. "I want to know what you think." She spoke as if the two things were synonymous.