Nothing else, perhaps, can explain my ridiculous conversation with her, when, for the third time that evening, I came suddenly upon the woman half-way down the stairs, standing by an open window as if in the act of listening. She was dressed in black, a black shawl over her square shoulders and black gloves on her big, broad hands. Two black objects, prayer-books apparently, she clasped, and on her head she wore a bonnet with shaking beads of jet. At first I did not know her, as I came running down upon her from the landing; it was only when she stood aside to let me pass that I saw her profile against the tapestry and recognised Mrs. Marsh. And to catch her on the front stairs, dressed like this, struck me as incongruous--impertinent. I paused in my dangerous descent. Through the opened window came the sound of bells--church bells--a sound more depressing to me than superstition, and as nauseating. Though the action was ill-judged, I obeyed the sudden prompting--was it a secret desire to attack, perhaps?--and spoke to her. ‘Been to church, I suppose, Mrs. Marsh?’ I said. ‘Or just going, perhaps?’ Her face, as she looked up a second to reply, was like an iron doll that moved its lips and turned its eyes, but made no other imitation of life at all. ‘Some of us still goes, sir,’ she said unctuously. It was respectful enough, yet the implied judgment of the rest of the world made me almost angry. A deferential insolence lay behind the affected meekness. ‘For those who believe no doubt it _is_ helpful,’ I smiled. ‘True religion brings peace and happiness, I’m sure--joy, Mrs. Marsh, JOY!’ I found keen satisfaction in the emphasis. She looked at me like a knife. I cannot describe the implacable thing that shone in her fixed, stern eyes, nor the shadow of felt darkness that stole across her face. She glittered. I felt hate in her. I knew--she knew too--who was in the thoughts of us both at that moment. She replied softly, never forgetting her place for an instant: ‘There is joy, sir--in ’eaven--over one sinner that repenteth, and in church there goes up prayer to Gawd for those ’oo--well, for the others, sir, ’oo----’ She cut short her sentence thus. The gloom about her as she said it was like the gloom about a hearse, a tomb, a darkness of great hopeless dungeons. My tongue ran on of itself with a kind of bitter satisfaction: ‘We must believe there are _no_ others, Mrs. Marsh. Salvation, you know, would be such a failure if there were. No merciful, all-foreseeing God could ever have devised such a fearful plan----’ Her voice, interrupting me, seemed to rise out of the bowels of the earth: ‘They rejected the salvation when it was hoffered to them, sir, on earth.’ ‘But you wouldn’t have them tortured for ever because of one mistake in ignorance,’ I said, fixing her with my eye. ‘Come now, would you, Mrs. Marsh? No God worth worshipping could permit such cruelty. Think a moment what it means.’