'I don't believe in marriage. If I did, I should have married you.'
'That's sinful, not to believe in marriage. Don't you believe in God?'
'To the best of my belief, no. One thing I am sure about: I don't believe in Jesus. I suppose Jesus and God are one and the same thing, are they not?'
'Yes, Jesus is God.'
'And God is Jesus?'
'Yes.'
'How is that?'
'That's the mystery. We don't know. You ought to have faith, and believe in it.' I looked down. There was absolutely no good in attempting to say anything serious on these matters to her. I looked up again.
'Rosy,' I said, 'I don't like you to think what I can see you do think about my not having married you. I would not marry any woman in the world, however much I loved her. I could not repeat the words of the marriage service with my lips, and laugh at them in my heart. That would not be true.'
'You would, though,' she said, looking at me with a look of experience, 'if you loved a person.'
What was the good of contradicting her? I kept silence, with downcast eyes, for a moment. Then I said.
'Why, if you believe that you will be punished for all this, don't you ask me to marry you and chance my not caring for you then even as much as I do now—as you say? What sort of punishment do you think you'll get?'
'I shall be burned in fire! I knew that long ago. … I knew quite well it would be like this some day. I used to pray to God not to think about you, but I could not help it: I did think about you! When you went away to Paris, I was ill, and I thought I was going to die; and I promised God I would never think about you any more; but I got well again, and I went on thinking about you more than ever! I couldn't help it! And at last I felt I couldn't do without you. You've no idea what a way I used to get in sometimes.
