She tried to tell him, but found it difficult. "I seem to find something
here that I thought I had lost."

"What things?"

"Well--guardian angels--do you believe in them?" She spoke lightly, as
if it were not in the least serious, but he felt that it was serious.

"I believe in all beautiful things--"

"I used to think when I was a little girl that they were around me when
I was asleep--

'Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John--
Bless the bed that I lie on--'"

her laugh was a bit breathless--"but I don't believe in them any more.
Ridgeley doesn't, you know. And it does seem silly--"

"Oh, no, it isn't--"

"Ridgeley feels that it is a bit morbid--and perhaps he is right. He
says that we must eat and drink and--be merry," she flung out her hands
with a little gesture of protest, "but he really isn't merry--"

"I see. He just eats and drinks?" He smiled at her.

"And works. And his work is--wonderful."

They sat down on a stone bench which had been hewn out of solid gray