His shoulders and eyebrows lifted; he made a queer movement with his hands, palms outwards. He stood still in the path, turned to her, straight and tall. He looked down at her; his lips jerked; the hard, sharp smile bared narrow teeth. "The more you do for people the less they love you," he said. "Your people must be very funny." "No. No. They're simply pious, orthodox Christians, and I don't believe in Christianity. I'm an atheist. I don't believe their God exists. I hope he doesn't. They wouldn't mind so much if I were a villain, too, but it's awkward for them when they find an infidel practising any of the Christian virtues. My eldest sister, Ruth, would tell you that I _am_ a villain." "She doesn't really think it." "Doesn't she! My dear child, she's got to think it, or give up her belief." She could see the gable end of Five Elms now. It would soon be over. When they got to the garden gate. It _was_ over. "I suppose," he said, "I must shut the prison door." They looked at each other through the bars and laughed. "When shall I see you again?" he said. II. She had seen him again. She could count the times on the fingers of one hand. Once, when he came to dinner with Dr. and Mrs. Draper; once at Sunday supper with the Drapers after Church; once on a Saturday when Mrs. Draper asked her to tea again; and once when he called to take her for a walk in the fields. Mamma had lifted her eyebrows and Mrs. Draper said, "Nonsense. He's old enough to be her father." The green corn stood above her ankles then. This was the fifth time. The corn rose to her waist. The ears were whitening. "You're the only person besides Mark who listens. There was Jimmy. But that was different. He didn't know things. He's a darling, but he doesn't know things." "Who is Jimmy?" "Mark's friend and mine." "_Where_ is he?" "In Australia. He can't ever come back, so I shall never see him again." "I'm glad to hear it." A sudden, dreadful doubt. She turned to him in the narrow path. "You aren't laughing at me, are you? You don't think I'm shamming and showing off?" "I? I? Laughing at you? My poor child--No--" "They don't understand that you can really love words--beautiful sounds. And thoughts. Love them awfully, as if they were alive. As if they were people." "They are alive. They're better than people. You know the best of your Shelley and Plato and Spinoza. Instead of the worst." "I should have liked to have known them, too. Sometimes I pretend that I do know them. That they're alive. That they're here. Saying things and listening. They're kind. They never misunderstand. They never lose their tempers." "You mustn't do that," he said sharply. "Why not?" "It isn't good for you. Talk to me. I'm alive. I'm here, I'll listen. I'll never misunderstand. I'll never lose my temper." "You aren't always here." He smiled, secretly, with straight lips, under the funny, frizzy, French moustache. And when he spoke again he looked old and wise, like an uncle.