Equally with her voice her face echoed me again. "Teach you?"
"To abandon my false gods. Lead me back to peace by the steps you've trod. By so much as they must have remained traceable to you, shall I find them of interest and profit. They must in fact be most remarkable: won't they even—for what I may find in them—be more remarkable than those we should now be taking together if we hadn't separated, if we hadn't pulled up?" That was a proposition I could present to her with candour, but before her absence of precipitation had permitted her much to consider it I had already followed it on. "You'll just tell me, however, that since I do pull up and turn back with you we shall just have not separated. Well, then, so much the better—I see you're right. But I want," I earnestly declared, "not to lose an inch of the journey."
She watched me now as a Roman lady at the circus may have watched an exemplary Christian. "The journey has been a very simple one," she said at last. "With my mind made up on a single point, it was taken at a stride."
I was all interest. "On a single point?" Then, as, almost excessively deliberate, she still kept me: "You mean the still commonplace character of Long's—a—consciousness?"
She had taken at last again the time she required. "Do you know what I think?"
"It's exactly what I'm pressing you to make intelligible."
"Well," said Mrs. Briss, "I think you're crazy."
It naturally struck me. "Crazy?"
"Crazy."
I turned it over. "But do you call that intelligible?"