“Only a little.”
“Have you talked him round?”
“I can’t say that I have. And I don’t know that I want to.”
“George!”
Rose had put out the hall lamp, and her voice sounded hoarse and ghostly in the darkness.
“Well, the boy’s got some sort of religion at last after being a heathen for years.”
“I’m not sure that he wouldn’t be better as a heathen than believing the silly, extravagant things he does. I don’t suppose for a minute it’s gone really deep.”
“Why not?”
“The sort of thing couldn’t. What he wants is a sober, sensible, practical religion——”
“Soup?”