“They told you what to think, in Chapel?”
“Oh, no!” she cries. “No. Sometimes the Doctor would talk about smoking for girls, and sometimes about movies. And there is a beautiful sermon that he always gives at Easter, about bread and hyacinths. That’s about Art, you know.”
Nod thoughtfully. “Yes. He likes Art, doesn’t he?”
“You’re teasing me,” she says, sadly. “Whenever I talk about religion you get that way. I don’t see why we’re always fighting.”
“We’re not always fighting, are we? All right, let’s stop talking about school. But I did want to ask you something. Why do you think it’s so shocking when I say that God isn’t watching everything you do?” And you think with some anger at yourself that here you are again.
“I didn’t think it was shocking,” she says eagerly. “I’m never shocked. I was just surprised when you told Lilian you didn’t think He was personal enough to have opinions on Prohibition.”
“What makes you think He is?” you ask. Put your arm around her shoulders; she snuggles down comfortably.
“Well,” she begins reasonably, “how would we all be here? Don’t you think we must have come from—I mean, don’t you see that we must be something like Him? Not so perfect or so big and powerful, but—why everybody knows that!”
“So that makes it all right,” you tease her. “If everybody thinks so.”
“Well, I guess they’ve always thought so, for years. And it seems to work. Here we are, aren’t we? Don’t you think we’re improving? It must be right.”