‘Necessary, of course,’ she returned. ‘You can always make a thing necessary if you want to. If a man sets fire to the tail of his shirt, he has got to get out of it. But that doesn’t make him look less of a fool, Jonathan. Necessary? It’s necessary, I suppose, that you should shoot people at sight before you know who they are. But if you mean that for an object-lesson, I don’t find it attractive.’ ‘Object-lesson of what?’ demanded Mr. Trimblerigg. ‘Yes, of what?’ she retorted. ‘It’s not Free Evangelicalism, it’s not common sense, and I don’t suppose _you_ think it comic either.’ Her accent on the word enraged him, as she had expected. ‘I was only asking,’ she said. ‘You’ve your sense of humour, and I’ve mine, and they don’t always agree. A man who can never see a joke is a poor creature; but when he makes a joke of himself and can’t see _that_--he’s past praying for. Did you say your prayers to-night, Jonathan? You did? Then better say ’em again backwards, and see if you can’t get more sense out of them.’ ‘Thank you,’ said Mr. Trimblerigg. ‘You mean well; but I don’t need to be told how to pray: I pray as I feel.’ ‘You do,’ she said comfortingly. ‘D’you ever look at your tongue first to see your symptoms? No? Well, you should then. There’s nothing in this world so dangerous as prayer if you’ve fixed up the answer before you begin. Forty years ago, Jonathan, you set that trap for yourself, now it’s a habit you can’t get rid of. Let’s look at your tongue. It’s my belief you’ve got an attack of it now, worse than usual. Either pray backwards from the way you’ve been doing--which means don’t begin by giving yourself the answer--or leave off.’ Mr. Trimblerigg, who during the past six months had been through deep waters and in his own eyes had done valiantly, sat up quivering with indignation. ‘If I hadn’t prayed,’ he cried, ‘prayed all I knew, prayed without ceasing--and if I had not depended every instant on my prayer being answered in ways beyond human power to devise, before this I should have been dead.’ ‘Yes,’ said Davidina, ‘and if you had aimed your last prayer a little straighter, so should I. It missed--like some of the others, I’m thinking. Two days ago I met six of your prayers, as you call ’em, striped like a barber’s pole, dead as door-nails, standing on their heads in native earth. They weren’t exactly addressed to me; but I’ve come in answer to them; and if you don’t think it’s the word of the Lord I’m telling you now, Jonathan, put up another and have done with me!’ Mr. Trimblerigg’s sense of lifelong grievances came to a head, and he spoke plainly: ‘I shall never have done with you, Davidina, never, never! All my life you’ve hated me, persecuted me, wished me ill. Yes; you’ve been sorry whenever I succeeded, glad when I’ve failed; and if I were to fail now, you’d only say--“Serve him right! Serve him right!”’