"Read Rom. xii. 1, again."
Rotha read it, and looked up in silence. Mr. Southwode's face wore a slight smile. He did not look, she thought, like a man who felt the poorer for what he had given up.
"Well?—" said he.
"Well. I have read this often," said Rotha. "I know the words."
"Have you obeyed them?"
"I—do—not—know. I am afraid, not."
"When a man has given his body a living sacrifice, has he anything left to give beside?"
"Why not?"
"Think. In that case, his hands are his Master's. They cannot do anything inconsistent with his use of them, or interrupting it, or hindering it. All they do will be, indirectly or directly, for Him."
"Yes—" said Rotha. "But nothing for himself, then?"