"He was; it's lucky you didn't understand all he said. He says we are base materialists," and I slapped a mosquito.
"It does irritate, the way Ludwig puts it, of course; the mere sound of his language makes one want to fight. But I wonder if some of it isn't true? How big a part do spiritual things play in your life, Ted?"
I sat up straight at the abruptness of the challenge. It was not an easy one to meet with Helen's now solemn grey eyes upon me. They were so large and clearly truthful. I was curious concerning my own answer.
"Spirituality is not what one does, such as going to church; it is the way one feels inside about things," I defended, I fear lamely. It wasn't what I had intended the major premise to be.
"Well," Helen went on, "how do you feel inside, and how much do these feelings shape your life?"
I was fairly cornered. I had postponed self-analysis on this particular subject; I wasn't certain what, if anything, I did believe. I lacked a good deal of Prospero's fluent "philosophy."
"Perhaps I could answer better if I knew a little about your opinions," I dodged.
"That isn't fair, because I asked first; however, I'm not afraid to tell you." She pulled a fern leaf and slowly tore the fronds apart as she reflected a moment. I laughed.
"What are you laughing at, Ted?"
"Seeing you tear that fern apart made me think of Caliban upon Setebos—the twenty-first crab you choose for destruction, while you're trying to invent what you believe."