"Still, He's there, you know," said Holt.
"Your God?" asked Stainton. "Why, your god is only your own prejudices made infinite."
"You know what I mean," Holt laboriously explained. "In the really 'portant things of life, what's fellow do, and what makes him do it?"
"Reason," suggested Stainton.
"The really 'portant things generally come too quick for—for—lemme see: for reason."
"Philosophy?"
"To quick for that, too."
"Instinct, perhaps."
"'Nd don't say 'nstinct. Fellow's 'nstincts are low, but he does something—high. Sort of surroundings 's been brought up in—partly. Not altogether. Partly's something else; something from—from——" Holt groped for the word. "From outside," he concluded triumphantly and waved an explanatory hand. "Well," he added, "that's God."
Stainton rose.