"I prefer not to say what I think,"—I replied, gently. "Dear Catherine, there are some things in life which cannot be explained, and it is better not to try and explain them. But believe me, I can never thank you enough for this yachting trip—you have done more for me than you will ever know!—and so far from being 'offended' I am grateful!—grateful beyond all words!"
She held my hands, looking at me wistfully.
"You will go away,"—she said, in a low tone—"and we shall perhaps never meet again. I don't think it likely we shall. People often try to meet again and never do—haven't you noticed that? It seems fated that they shall only know each other for a little while just to serve some purpose, and then part altogether. Besides, you live in a different world from ours. You believe in things that I can't even understand—You think there is a God—and you think each human being has a soul—"
"Are you not taught the same in your churches?" I interrupted.
She looked startled.
"Oh yes!—but then one never thinks seriously about it! You know that if we DID think seriously about it we could never live as we do. One goes to church for convention's sake—because it's respectable; but suppose you were to say to a clergyman that if your soul is 'immortal' it follows in reason that it must always have existed and always will exist, he would declare you to be 'unorthodox.' That's where all the puzzle and contradiction comes in—so that I don't believe in the soul at all."
"Are you sure you do not?" I enquired, meaningly.
She was silent. Then she suddenly broke out.
"Well, I don't want to believe in it! I don't want to think about it! I'd rather not! It's terrible! If a soul has never died and never will die, its burden of memories must be awful!—horrible!—no hell could be worse!"
"But suppose they are beautiful and happy memories?" I suggested.