Marian asked the one unanswerable question, and I was delighted. She said: “Why was the Divine Self ever divided? How did we ever happen to need bodies and expression? Why did it not all grow together?” She saw that contrast was needed for recognition. But why, she wondered, was anything at all? I answered her: “We said the other day that it did not matter whether the search for good were infinite or not. Neither does it concern us to know the unknowable, whether or how the awaking world began. But we do know it is awakening, what is the direction, what is the aim and desire of life. To me no more seems needed. We know how to go forward.” “That is true,” she said. She spoke of old age and mental decay. She said she did not see why people lost, for no reason, the progress they seemed to have made. I answered her that I did not think they lost it, unless they did not try to keep it; that it is a thing one must work for at each moment. “But why do they stop trying?” she asked. “I don’t think they stop,” I said. “I think they never did try, but in youth such people merely had more stimulation from without.” “Now, my grandfather,” she said, “was an intelligent man, and he is losing his memory.” “Is he losing the valuable thing? Does he love you less, understand you less? Are you sure the memory he is losing is the thing he still needs?” She saw what I meant. She was struck by it. I went on: “One might lose the ability to do mathematics, when one had gained all there was to be got out of mathematics.” She said: “I think you are right. I understand that.” Now when Ruth insisted again that matter was something binding, something to be left behind, Alfred said: “I don’t think it is binding.” “Neither do I,” said Virginia. “Neither do I,” said I, “for we can always express ourselves in a new way. The man who has written a book is not dumb afterward.” The meeting was very short and unsatisfactory. I believe that the children went home disappointed, for I could see that we had not got at anything that the children had not understood. Since then Virginia’s mother told me that Virginia did not enjoy it as much as the other meetings; that it was too deep for her. Florence’s “big brother Arthur” told me that she, too, did not enjoy it as much, and that when he questioned her she seemed to understand clearly only the fact that there was no sharp distinction between mind and matter. Otherwise, as he put it, she “talked woolly.” During the meeting she yawned once.