“Is that what you learned in your captivity, Miss Norne?”
“You do not believe me.”
“I believe your terrible experiences in China have shaken you to your tragic little soul. Horror and grief and loneliness have left scars on tender, impressionable youth. They would have slain maturity—broken it, crushed it. But youth is flexible, pliable, and bends—gives way under pressure. Scars become slowly effaced. It shall be so with you. You will learn to understand that nothing really can harm the soul.”
For a few moments’ silence they stood facing each other on the dim landing outside his locked door.
“Nothing can slay our souls,” he repeated in a grave voice. “I do not believe you really ever have done anything to wound even your self-respect. I do not believe you are capable of it, or ever have been, or ever will be. But somebody has deeply wounded you, spiritually, and has wounded your mind to persuade you that your soul is no longer in God’s keeping. For that is a lie!”
He saw her features working with poignant emotions as though struggling to believe him.
“Souls are never lost,” he said. “Ungoverned passions of every sort merely cripple them for a space. God always heals them in the end.”
He laid his hand on the door-knob once more and lifted the latch-key.
“Don’t!” she whispered, catching his hand again, “if there should be somebody in there waiting for us!”
“There is not a soul in my rooms. My servant sleeps out.”