“I don't know,” said Erica, relapsing into perplexed silence.
“Besides,” continued Tom, “you cry out because I say they must be just a little touched, but they accuse us of something far worse than madness, they accuse us of absolute wickedness.”
“Not all of them,” said Erica.
“The greater part,” said Tom. “How often do you think the chieftain meets with really fair treatment from the antagonists?”
Erica had nothing to say to this. The harshness and intolerance which her father had constantly to encounter was the great grief of her life, the perpetual source of indignation, her strongest argument against Christianity.
“Have you much to do tonight?” she asked, not anxious to stir up afresh the revolt against the world's injustice which the merest touch would set working within her. “I was thinking that, if there was time to spare, we might go to see the professor; he has promised to show me some experiments.”
“Electricity?” Tom pricked up his ears. “Not half a bad idea. If you'll help me we can polish off the letters in an hour or so, and be free by eight o'clock.”
They set to work, and between them disposed of the correspondence.
It was a great relief to Erica after her long day's work to be out in the cool evening air. The night was fine but very windy, indeed the sudden gusts at the street corners made her glad to take Tom's arm. Once, as they rather slackened their speed, half baffled by the storm, a sentence from a passer-by fell on their ears. The speaker looked like a countryman.
“Give me a good gas-burner with pipes and a meter that a honest man can understand! Now this 'ere elective light I say it's not canny; I've no belief in things o' that kind, it won't never—”