"Then," said Aunt Lavvy, "be sure you tell her that I didn't talk to you.
Promise me you'll tell her."

That was what Aunt Charlotte had said. Talking about religion was like
talking about being born.




XI


I.

Nobody has any innate ideas. Children and savages and idiots haven't any,
so grown-up people can't have, Mr. Locke says.

But how did he know? You might have them and forget about them, and only
remember again after you were grown up.

She sat up in the drawing-room till nine o'clock now, because she was
eleven years old. She had taken the doll's clothes out of the old wooden
box and filled it with books: the Bible, Milton, and Pope's Homer, the
Greek Accidence, and _Plutarch's Lives_, and the Comedies from Papa's
illustrated Shakespeare in seven volumes, which he never read, and two
volumes of _Pepys' Diary_, and Locke _On the Human Understanding_. She
wished the Bible had been bound in pink calf like Pepys instead of the
shiny black leather that made you think of wet goloshes. Then it would
have looked new and exciting like the other books.