“George, why have you such a dislike for religion? Why do you hate everything I love?”
“Pardon me, my dear Nell, it was you, not I, that spoke of hating. Philosophers never hate.”
“But you do worse; you despise it. Thank God we have no children. It would be horrible to tell them that their father forbade them to go to church, or pray!”
It was like a stab into my heart of hearts, that cry of thanks to God. Despite myself, I lost my composure. She saw it instantly, and in the manner of her sex, encroached.
“Oh, George, do try to think sometimes of these things, for my sake! You would be so much happier, you surely would have so much more blessing, if you sometimes prayed.”
“How do you know that I do not pray?”
“Because you do not believe.”
“I do not believe precisely as your priest believes, that is all.”
She looked at me eagerly; then, after a moments hesitation, cried—
“George, if I asked a favour, would you grant it?”