Now wouldn’t that be more logical and satisfying than having God a male whose chest thunders with egotism and is too hard for tired heads and thoroughly comfortless? Wouldn’t it, Charlie?
Marsden
[With a strange passionate eagerness]
Yes! It would, indeed! It would, Nina!
Nina
[Suddenly jumping to her feet and going to him—with a horrible moaning desolation]
Oh, God, Charlie, I want to believe in something! I want to believe so I can feel! I want to feel that he is dead—my father! And I can’t feel anything, Charlie! I can’t feel anything at all!
[She throws herself on her knees beside him and hides her face in her hands on his knees and begins to sob—stifled torn sounds]
Marsden
[Bends down, pats her head with trembling hands, soothes her with uncertain trembling words]
There—there—don’t—Nina, please—don’t cry—you’ll make yourself sick—come now—get up—do!
[His hands grasping her arms he half raises her to her feet, but, her face still hidden in her hands, sobbing, she slips on to his lap like a little girl and hides her face on his shoulder. His expression becomes transported with a great happiness]
[In an ecstatic whisper]
As I dreamed . . . with a deeper sweetness! . . .
[He kisses her hair with a great reverence]
