"Quite a fair question. My answer is, of course: 'All three'; but the
point is rather: Does one wish to make even an attempt to define God to
oneself? Frankly, I don't! I'm content to feel that there is in one some
kind of instinct toward perfection that one will still feel, I hope,
when the lights are going out; some kind of honour forbidding one to
let go and give up. That's all I've got; I really don't know that I want
more."

Nedda clasped her hands.

"I like that," she said; "only--what is perfection, Mr. Cuthcott?"

Again he emitted that deep little sound.

"Ah!" he repeated, "what is perfection? Awkward, that--isn't it?"

"Is it"--Nedda rushed the words out--"is it always to be sacrificing
yourself, or is it--is it always to be--to be expressing yourself?"

"To some--one; to some--the other; to some--half one, half the other."

"But which is it to me?"

"Ah! that you've got to find out for yourself. There's a sort of
metronome inside us--wonderful, sell-adjusting little machine; most
delicate bit of mechanism in the world--people call it conscience--that
records the proper beat of our tempos. I guess that's all we have to go
by."

Nedda said breathlessly: