“The Almighty doesn’t seem to know His own business very well.”
“Don’t you blaspheme,” said Lucian. “I can’t say I believe that there is a God, but I know I don’t believe that there isn’t. When little boys like you are profane, you make me think of some kids I knew, who had a midnight supper in the church-yard to show they weren’t afraid of bogies. And it rained, and one got rheumatic fever; that was me,” he wound up, cheerfully.
Farquhar laughed, and broke off to ask, “Is that any one calling?”
“Who’d look us up at this time of night, ’cept it was the postman?”
“Are you expecting a letter?”
“I had my weekly budget yesterday, and so did you, sonny; don’t be jealous.”
“I am jealous; I’m confoundedly jealous.”
“What is it you want, boy?”
“To see your letter.”
Lucian was fully alive to the fascination of playing with a tiger; he pulled out Dolly’s grey envelope and played a tune on the back of it. “Here it is; what do you want to know?”