"Ah-h-h! They wax so fat that they stick in the Narrer Gate?"
"Yes; I suppose so."
Alfred considered this, frowning. Then his face brightened.
"I see you slipping through that Gate like a lozenge."
"Oh, please don't say that! 'Tis a figure of speech, Mr. Yellam. Thin people may have lean souls. I sometimes think that my soul is lean, when I lie awake thinking of—of——"
"Of what, dear?"
"Of myself, and what I want for myself."
"What do you want?"
"Lots and lots of things."
She evaded further questions, arousing a keener curiosity. Her elusiveness frightened him. He couldn't understand anybody lying awake after an honest day's toil. He tried to picture her lying sleepless, with her luminous eyes gazing into the darkness. Did she think of him? Did she really want him as he wanted her? The mere thought of her frail little body aroused a strange reverence. His mother was right. A puff of wind would blow her out of parish, blow her out of sight, blow her bang through the Narrow Gate. And feeling this, with the stabbing, ever-recurring reflection that she was the least fleshly of mortal women whom he knew, he would not willingly have added half a cubit to her stature or half a pound to her weight. In his eyes, she was just right.