"Oh, things will happen again," said Trafford, in her pause. "But they will happen again with a difference--after this. With a difference. That's the good of it all.... We've found something here--that makes everything different.... We've found each other, too, dear wife." She thought intently. "I am afraid," she whispered. "But what is there to be afraid of?" "_Myself_." She spoke after a little pause that seemed to hesitate. "At times I wish--oh, passionately!--that I could pray." "Why don't you?" "I don't believe enough--in that. I wish I did." Trafford thought. "People are always so exacting about prayer," he said. "Exacting." "You want to pray--and you can't make terms for a thing you want. I used to think I could. I wanted God to come and demonstrate a bit.... It's no good, Madge.... If God chooses to be silent--you must pray to the silence. If he chooses to live in darkness, you must pray to the night...." "Yes," said Marjorie, "I suppose one must." She thought. "I suppose in the end one does," she said.... § 18 Mixed up with this entirely characteristic theology of theirs and their elaborate planning-out of a new life in London were other strands of thought. Queer memories of London and old times together would flash with a peculiar brightness across their contemplation of the infinities and the needs of mankind. Out of nowhere, quite disconnectedly, would come the human, finite: "Do you remember----?" Two things particularly pressed into their minds. One was the thought of their children, and I do not care to tell how often in the day now they calculated the time in England, and tried to guess to a half mile or so where those young people might be and what they might be doing. "The shops are bright for Christmas now," said Marjorie. "This year Dick was to have had his first fireworks. I wonder if he did. I wonder if he burnt his dear little funny stumps of fingers. I hope not." "Oh, just a little," said Trafford. "I remember how a squib made my glove smoulder and singed me, and how my mother kissed me for taking it like a man. It was the best part of the adventure." "Dick shall burn his fingers when his mother's home to kiss him. But spare his fingers now, Dadda...." The other topic was food. It was only after they had been doing it for a week or so that they remarked how steadily they gravitated to reminiscences, suggestions, descriptions and long discussions of eatables--sound, solid eatables. They told over the particulars of dinners they had imagined altogether forgotten; neither hosts nor conversations seemed to matter now in the slightest degree, but every item in the menu had its place. They nearly quarrelled one day about _hors-d'oeuvre_. Trafford wanted to dwell on them when Marjorie was eager for the soup. "It's niggling with food," said Marjorie.