Paul knit his brows. "One must," he objected.
"No," said Manning, sitting up sharply, "that's exactly where you're wrong. One most emphatically must not."
Complete bewilderment settled down on Paul. He made a characteristic little gesture at last. "I suppose I haven't the intelligence necessary to follow you," he said almost bitterly.
"Paul," said Manning, "you have, that's the rub. More, I shouldn't be in the least surprised if you did. You've been God-ridden all your life, obsessed, bound, but you've broken steadily away from the chains. It seems inevitable to me that sooner or later you will break with this also. If I've said nothing much so far, it's because, in a way, I'm not interested. I like you too much to want to see you rot up your life with Roman Catholicism or any arrant nonsense of that sort, but I've always thought you had better keep your God till—till——" He hesitated. Then: "Possibly till the right person came along to deliver you."
"You mean your cousin, I suppose," Paul said slowly.
"Indeed I do not," replied Manning quickly. "I had no idea you two would seriously broach the subject. But it is interesting that it has come that way. You're in good hands, though Ursula keeps more of the cargo than I can carry."
"Precious little, I should think," retorted Paul.
"Well, you can discuss that with her. As for myself——"
"Yes, then, as for yourself."
"You honestly want to know?"