"Why did you not take apartments, then?" "Oh, they are so lonely and so poky, and landladies rob one so." "Is your father a Roman Catholic?" "He is." "What are you?" "I am nothing," said Fanny, proclaiming her simple creed with all the simplicity of childhood, and a smile that surely was reflected on the Recording Angel's face as he jotted down her reply. "Does your _father_ know of this state of your mind?" asked Charles in a horrified voice. "Yes, and he is always trying to convert me to 'the faith,' as he calls it. We have long arguments, and I always beat him. When he can find nothing more to say, he always scratches his dear old head and says, 'Anyhow you're baptised, and that's one comfort,' then we talk of other things, but he did convert me once." "How was that?" "I was in a hurry to try on a frock," said this valuable convert to the Church; "at least the dressmaker was waiting, so I gave in, but only for once." "What do you believe in, then?" asked Charles, glancing fearfully at the female atheist by his side, who had taken her garden hat from her head and was swinging it by the ribbon. "I believe in being good, and I believe in father, and I believe one ought always to make every one as happy as possible and be kind to animals. I believe people who ill-treat animals go to hell--at least, I hope they do." "Do you believe in heaven?" asked Mr Bevan in a pained voice. "Of course I do." "Then you are _not_ an atheist," in a voice of relief. "Of course I'm not. Who said I was?" "You did." "I didn't. I'd sooner die than be an atheist. One came here to dinner once; he had a red beard, and smoked shag in the drawing-room. Ugh! such a man!" "Do you believe in God?" "I used to, when I was a child. I was always told He would strike me dead if I told a lie, and then I found that He didn't. It was like the man who lived in the oven. I was always told that the Black Man who lived in the oven would run away with me if I stole the jam; and one day I stole the jam, and opened the oven door and looked in. I was in a terrible fright, but there wasn't any man there." "It's very strange," said Charles. "That there wasn't a man there?" "I was referring," said Charles stiffly, "to such thoughts in the mind of one so young as you are." "Oh, I'm as old as the hills," cried Fanny in the voice of a _blasé_ woman of the world, making a grab at a passing moth and then flinging her hat after it, "as old as the--mercy! what's that?" "Miss Fanny!" cried the voice of Susannah, who was lowing like a cow through garden and shrubbery in search of her missing mistress, "Miss Fah-ny, Miss----" "That's tea," said Fanny, rising, and leading the way to the house. CHAPTER X ASPARAGUS AND CATS