"Perhaps. You don't read Newman, I suppose?"
"Never."
"He speaks, in one of his poems, of 'A secret joy that Hell is near.' Now, he was a great saint, Mr. Ingram; no Augustine, but one of the predestined of God's love, who never in the whole course of their lives commit a vile act, say a vile word, nor probably entertain an ill thought. And yet, you see, he felt it."
She had taken out her handkerchief, and was twisting it nervously into a rope.
"'A secret joy that Hell is near!' That's what I feel at times. That's what I've been feeling all to-night, as I listened to those people. It's wicked, I know. It's even a refinement of wickedness."
"I think it's nerves."
"Oh, no, you don't. I won't submit to that kind of talk from you—but I'm not keeping you from bed to discuss my temperament. About your story: I'm so sorry I can't help you to publish it."
"Owing, I gather, to its religious views?"
"Why deny it? Yes."
"As exemplified in the Rev. Mr. Ffoulkes, the Salvation Merchant?"