upon his soul; and soon he started by asking directly: "You are still satisfied here, Fidelia?"
"Why, yes," she said, not thinking.
"This completely satisfies you?"
"What?" she asked now.
"This life you lead."
"Why," she said "why"
"You think," he demanded, "that this can go on indefinitely?"
"Why, yes," Fidelia said but she was not thinking at all of what he said; for he always said much the same thing. She was thinking, after having noticed again his likeness to David: "I mean absolutely nothing to him. If David grew to be like him, I'd mean absolutely nothing to David."
Now she heard father Herrick asking her something more which required an answer. "Do you never consider how all this must pass away?"
"'All what?" she asked.
"These," he said, motioning with his hand to her painted chairs, to her iridescent glasses and her pretty rug; at least she supposed he was pointing to the chair and the glasses and the rug—"these vain things to which you give your life."
"Yes," she responded; and he demanded, "Fidelia, what was in your mind while I was speaking to you?"
"Why," said Fidelia, honestly. "I was wondering how much you ever were like David."
He said: "Very much, as David once was." And Fidelia jumped.
