“I don’t do anything. It isn’t me.”
“I see,” said Milly. “I’ve prayed. You didn’t think I hadn’t?”
“It’s not that—not anything you mean by it. And yet it is; only it’s more, much more. I can’t explain it. I only know it isn’t me.”
She was beginning to feel vaguely uncomfortable about having told her.
“And, Milly, you mustn’t tell him. Promise me you won’t tell him.”
“No, I won’t tell him.”
“Because, you see, he’d think it was all rot.”
“He would,” said Milly. “It’s the sort of thing he does think rot.”
“And that might prevent its working.”
Milly smiled faintly. “I haven’t the ghost of an idea what ‘it’ is. But whatever it is, can you go on doing it?”