“A summer night like this is the best imitation of Paradise this side of the Golden Gates,” said Lucian, leaning down to watch the ripples parting silver-rimmed beneath the prow.
“I’d not give a cent to get into Paradise.”
“You won’t be asked, sonny.”
“There you’re right, for there’s no such place.”
“Your views on eschatology, my friend, appear demned definite.”
“Definite? Finite, don’t you mean?”
Lucian leaned back and folded his arms restfully; he liked nothing better than to explore the recesses of Farquhar’s character, which were commonly open only after dark.
“Haven’t you any intimations of immortality from the recollections of early childhood?” he asked.
“None,” said Farquhar. “Never had. Seventy years of this world’s long enough for me. I don’t want an eternity to learn to be good in. Another point: if I believed what you Christians believe, do you think I’d live as you live? Not much. Act up to your creed; there’s the secret of happiness.”
“And what’s your creed, then?”