Once she said to him: "You think all this queer, don't you?" waving her hand at the bed, the chairs, the paper. "This colour and the odds and ends and the rest."
"It's part of you," he said; "I shouldn't know you without them."
"I love them," she breathed. "I love them. Oh! if I'd had my way I'd have been born when one could have piled up and splashed it about and had it everywhere—jewels, clothes, processions—Ah! that's why I hate this generation that's coming; the generation that you believe in so devoutly, it's so ugly. It wears ugly things, it likes ugly people, it believes in talking about ugly morals and making ugly laws...." Then she laughed—"It's funny, isn't it? I had to use the age I was born into, I cut my cloth to it, but what a figure I'd have made in any century before the nineteenth. All the old times were best. You could command and see that you were obeyed.... None of your Individualism then, Christopher."
She was silent for a time and he said nothing. He was thinking about Breton, wondering where he was, feeling that he should not have let him go. She said suddenly:
"Christopher, do you think there's a God?"
"I know there is."
"Well, I know there isn't—so there we are. One of us will find that we've made a mistake in a few years' time."
He said nothing. At last she began again:
"You're sure of it?"
"Quite sure."