"Sounds like something the Parson would say—my Parson," said Ishmael on one of his flashes of intuition; and then they both laughed, for Killigrew was one of those rare creatures, a born pagan—or rather heathen, which is not quite the same thing. The pagan has beliefs of his own; the true heathen denies the need for any, through sheer lack of interest.
"D'you think girls are so very different from us …?" went on Killigrew after a moment's silence. "The sort of things they really want to do and think about?"
"Girls are quite different," said Ishmael firmly; "they talk awful rot;
I've heard my sister and Phoebe—that's a girl at home."
"Yes, so does my sister—at least, she talks sort of clever stuff that's as bad. But how about Hilaria?" asked her admirer.
"Well, she's more sensible than most, because she wants to do things as though she weren't a girl, but I don't see how she's going to keep it up. She'll fall in love and then it'll all be over."
"You don't think much of girls, do you?"
"Oh, well … they're all right, I suppose. I want to do things, and girls want to feel things. Oh, yes, Bunny, they're awfully different."
"From you, perhaps … I dunno … I say, d'you really want the old bishop to lay his paws on your head?"
"Yes," replied Ishmael, briefly.
"Well, so does Hilaria. She read me some stuff out of a book—ripping fine stuff it was—by a chap called Mallory. All about knights that were searching for a cup they thought had the blood of God in it or something of the sort. But she seemed to believe it."