"Nothing is nicer than darkness, as I said just now, because you can
only see the way you MUST go instead of a hundred and fifty ways you
MIGHT. In darkness your soul is something like your own; in daylight,
lamplight, moonlight, never."

Nedda's spirit gave a jump; he seemed almost at last to be going to talk
about the things she wanted, above all, to find out. Her cheeks went
hot, she clenched her hands and said resolutely:

"Mr. Cuthcott, do you believe in God?"

Mr. Cuthcott made a queer, deep little noise; it was not a laugh,
however, and it seemed as if he knew she could not bear him to look at
her just then.

"H'm!" he said. "Every one does that--according to their natures. Some
call God IT, some HIM, some HER, nowadays--that's all. You might as well
ask--do I believe that I'm alive?"

"Yes," said Nedda, "but which do YOU call God?"

As she asked that, he gave a wriggle, and it flashed through her: 'He
must think me an awful enfant terrible!' His face peered round at
her, queer and pale and puffy, with nice, straight eyes; and she added
hastily:

"It isn't a fair question, is it? Only you talked about darkness, and
the only way--so I thought--"