‘Oh, I say, Miss Marcia! What are you trying to get at? Do you want me to confess to a hair shirt underneath my dinner-jacket?—I am afraid you must leave that to our friend the monk, up on his mountain-top.’
‘No, I didn’t mean just that. Flagellations and hair shirts strike me as a pretty useless sort of goodness.’
‘It does seem a poor business,’ he agreed, ‘for a strong young fellow like that to give up his whole life to the work of getting his soul into paradise.’
‘Still, if he wants paradise that much, and is willing to make the sacrifice——’
‘It’s setting a pretty high value on his own soul. I should never rate mine as being worth a lifetime of effort.’
‘I suppose a person’s soul is worth whatever price he chooses to set.’
‘Oh, of course, if a man keeps his soul in a bandbox he can produce it immaculate in the end; but what’s a soul for if it’s not for use? He would much better live in the world with his fellow-men, and help them keep their souls clean, even at the risk of getting his own a little dusty.’
‘Yes, perhaps that’s true,’ she conceded. ‘Such dust will doubtless brush off in the end.’
‘It certainly ought, if things are managed right.’
‘I can’t help feeling sorry, though, for the poor young monk; he will be so disappointed, when he brings out his shiny new soul, to find that it doesn’t rank any higher than some of the dusty ones that have been dragged through the world.’