"You know one, then?" Lawrence's voice was amusedly skeptical.
"It lies through the heart of man into the heart of"—Philip paused—"shall I say God?"
"You may as well, though it isn't especially clear." Lawrence smiled. "God is a big, but vague, term."
"I find it so," Philip answered, seriously. "There are days, however, and this was one of them, when I am sure of the meaning of that term. Claire must go forth with me and see."
"Yes, do let me go," she said, eagerly. Then, with a little laugh: "If your mystery out there is as discomforting as the Lawrence mystery in here, I sha'n't worship him, however."
"He isn't." Philip arose and crossed to his books. "He is the mighty God who speaks in solitude." He drew down a volume, and returned to his chair.
"I find here in these mountains the medicine that Hamlet should have had. He would have been no Hamlet had he ranged this plateau for a day in winter."
"And the world would be the loser," Lawrence interposed.
Claire rose and started to prepare their evening meal. She had taken over the duties of housekeeping from the time her ankle had allowed her to walk.
"If you two are going to plunge the house into an argument such as that one promises to be," she said gaily, "I am going to reenforce the inner man so that at least you won't suffer from physical exhaustion."