"How wide the earth is and how small we are. Now think of that speck with all his hopes and ambitions—all the machinery of his brain and nerves and tell me whether any God can care. How can He, Christina?"
"He can't care for any one particular speck much, sweet. He might care for the idea of man or a race of men as a whole. Still, I'm not sure, honey. All I know is that I'm happy now."
"And I," he echoed.
Still they dug at this problem, the question of the origin of life—its why. The tremendous and wearisome age of the earth; the veritable storms of birth and death that seemed to have raged at different periods, held them in discussion.
"We can't solve it, Eugenio mio," she laughed. "We might as well go home. Poor, dear mamma will be wondering where her Christina is. You know I think she suspects that I'm falling in love with you. She doesn't care how many men fall in love with me, but if I show the least sign of a strong preference she begins to worry."
"Have there been many preferences?" he inquired.
"No, but don't ask. What difference does it make? Oh, Eugene, what difference does it make? I love you now."
"I don't know what difference it makes," he replied, "only there is an ache that goes with the thought of previous experience. I can't tell you why it is. It just is."
She looked thoughtfully away.
"Anyhow, no man ever was to me before what you have been. Isn't that enough? Doesn't that speak?"