“Do you not like our music?” she asked.
“It is short of but one thing,” I answered as we went in, “and that is joyousness.”
The door closed behind us and the music ceased. Presently it began again. I listened enraptured and entranced.
“What do you think of that?” she queried.
“That is not joyous, it is madness—an elation which does not last.”
“You are very bad to please. Or rather, let me use my old argument, I will say that you are dull.”
At the farther end, above a high-standing altar, rose a mighty crucifix. It was so beautiful, so real, so truthful in its silent agony, that, looking through the dusk, it startled me.
I grasped the yielding arm beside me.
“What is that?” I questioned sharply.
“You a Christian and so dull?” she exclaimed. “That is Christ, the carpenter, the king, the God, the Tool, the Fool, anything, everything. Whatever you will. Is it not like him?”