"Why is that horrible for me to believe? For you—" And she filled up the sentence with a smile.
"I don't believe you do believe it."
"There's nothing you seem to believe. I do honestly think that you can't be saved if you don't believe."
"I accept that. The question, however, is what kind of belief and what kind of saving. Do you suppose Plato is in hell?"
"I don't know. He invented Platonic love, didn't he? So that might save him." She looked at him with her great grey eyes—he couldn't tell whether she was quizzing him or not.
"Is that all you know of Plato?"
"I know he was a Greek philosopher. But I only learned Greek roots at the Convent. So Plato is Greek to me."
"He has been beautifully Englished by the Master of my College. I wish you'd read him."
"Is the translation in the library?"
"Of course—with lots of other interesting books, and such queer folios and quartos and first editions. The collector was a man of taste. Why do you never come and let me show them you?"