But he had gone too far for pity. In plain words she had told him she loved him, and in plain words now would he have named the bar that she had set up between them.
“What is it?” he asked, and his voice sounded cold and hard, “in heaven’s name, what is it!”
“You know,” she hesitated, “it is written—that—that we shall have no—no dealings—with—with the unrighteous.”
“Am I unrighteous?” he asked bitterly. “How am I unrighteous?”
“You are an unbeliever. You—you told me so yourself. You don’t believe in heaven or—or—hell—or—or—”
“In heaven or hell, don’t I? You know, Susy—good Lord!—Susy, you know you can make this world one or the other for me.
“Don’t—don’t,” she implored. “I mean you don’t think enough about your eternal salvation.”
“Child, how can I? This world is hard enough to get on in, God knows, how can I worry about the next? Who knows? There mayn’t be a next.”
“There is, there is!” she cried, eagerly. “Oh! if you would only repent while there is yet time—if you would only repent and be saved!”
“Oh, child, child, is there anything in the world I would not do for your sweet face?”