"Yes," she replied eagerly, "and what then?"
"He did what he said he would do," I said, "and the result was misery. Lives were wrecked, and he obtained no satisfaction for himself."
"But did he not confess that he had happiness while he was making the experiments?"
"Perhaps he did, until his deeds bore fruit," was my reply.
"Ah yes, that is it," and her voice was eager. "After all, what is the use of a humdrum existence? Some people," and she spoke almost bitterly, "are born handicapped. I think with you that, for most people, our present mode of life is the outcome of a long period of evolution. Customs have become laws, and these laws have hardened until, if one breaks them, he, or she, is banned—condemned. All the same, they are artificial and they should not apply to exceptional circumstances. Do you believe there is a God, Mr. Erskine?"
"There seems to be a consensus of opinion that there is," was my reply.
"If there is, do you think He intends us to be happy? Do you think He would condemn us for snatching at our only means of happiness?"
I tried to understand the drift of her mind, but could not.
"I don't know whether there is a God or not," she said. "Even all feeling of Him is kept from me. Neither do I believe there is a future life. Do you?"
I was silent, for she had touched upon a sore spot.