“Good gracious! You promised me once not to pick me up and make me explain myself.”
“Then I apologize. I can see that it isn’t fair to make a goddess explain her own divinity.”
“Oh-o-o-o,” she mocked him. “You get zero for that!”
She was walking along with her hands thrust into the pockets of her sweater, the brim of her small sport hat turned up above her face.
“But seriously,” she went on, “out of doors is the best place to think of God. The churches make religion seem so complicated. We can’t believe in a God we can’t imagine. Where there’s sky and grass it’s all so much simpler. The only God I can feel is a spirit hovering all about, watching and loving us—the God of the Blue Horizons. I can’t think of Him as a being whose name must be whispered as children whisper of terrifying things in the dark.”
“The God of the Blue Horizons?” He repeated the phrase slowly. “Yes; the world has had its day of fear—anything that lifts our eyes to the blue sky is good—really gives us, I suppose, a sense of the reality of God....”
They had encountered few other players, but a foursome was now approaching them where the lines of the course paralleled.
“Constance Mills and George Whitford; I don’t know the others,” said Millicent.
Mrs. Mills waved her hand and started toward them, looking very fit in a smart sport suit. Idly twirling her driver, she had hardly the air of a zealous golfer.
“Ah!” she exclaimed. “Aren’t we the brave ones? Scotch blood! Not afraid of a little moisture. Mr. Storrs! I know now why you’ve never been to see me—you’re better occupied. It’s dreadful to be an old married woman. You see what happens, Millicent! I warn you solemnly against marriage. Yes, George—I’m coming. Nice to meet you, even by chance, Mr. Storrs. By-by, Millie.”