It was like the
old days before I went to school. We had not had much religious talk
of late years. To say the truth, since I became an Eton man the
religious fervour of my childhood had died out. A strong belief in the
practical power of prayer (especially "when everything else failed")
was almost all that remained of that resolution to which Polly had
alluded in her letter. In discussions with her, I took Leo's view of
the subject. I warned her in a common-sense way against being
"religious overmuch" (not that I had any definite religious measure in
my mind); I laughed at Helen; I indulged a little cheap wit, and made
Polly furious, by smart sneers about women and parsons. I puzzled her
with scraps of old philosophy, and theological difficulties of
venerable standing, and was as proud to discomfit her faith as if my
own soul had no stake in the matter. I fairly drove her to tears about
the origin of evil. Sometimes I would have "Sunday talks" with her in
a different spirit, but even then she said I "did her no good," for I
would not believe that she could "have anything to repent of."
I fancy Mr. Andrewes had asked me to come to him that evening greatly
for the purpose of having a "Sunday talk.
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