"Yes, I remember. You said you didn't believe that there was such a thing as love—although even then you were trying to make me lose my heart to you."
"I told you," she went on, "that some of us were born into the world handicapped, and I asked you whether, seeing nature had prevented us from getting our desires in natural ways, we were not justified in overstepping conventional boundaries."
"Yes," I replied, "I remember. But I never could understand what you meant."
"No," she went on, "you were blind, blind! I don't think a man can understand a woman. You were at the prayer-meeting the other night—do you believe in God?"
"I think there must be a God," I said. "I have just come from Mr. and Mrs. Searle's house. They have lost their boy; he has been killed in the war. They have no doubt about God's existence, they were even rejoicing in their sorrow; and it is all because God is real to them. Yes, I think there must be a God."
"If there is a God, He must be awfully unjust," she said bitterly. "If there is a God, why did He create us with barriers around us which we cannot break down, and which we long to break down? Why did He give us longings which we cannot satisfy?"
"What longings? What barriers?" I asked.
Again she seemed struggling for speech, and I knew there was something in her mind which she wanted to express but could not.
"Tell me," she said, "were you really serious when you said you thought the doctor's verdict was soon to be fulfilled?"
"Yes," I said, "perfectly serious."