In the sunlit silence of the vast cemetery the wheels of Dion’s life seemed for a moment to cease from revolving.

God is great—­great in His power to inflict misery upon men.  And so pray to Him!  Mount upon the minarets, go up high, till you are taken by the blue, till, at evening, you are nearer to the stars than other men, and pray to Him and proclaim His glory.  For He is the repository of the power to cover you with misery as with a garment, and to lay you even with the dust.  Pray then—­pray!  Unless the garment is upon you, unless the dust is already about you!

Dion lay on the warm earth and looked at the distant minarets, and smiled at the self-seeking slave-instinct in men, which men sought to glorify, to elevate into a virtue.

“Why are you smiling?” said a husky voice above.

He did not look up, but he answered: 

“Because I was looking at those towers of prayer.”

“The minarets.”

She was silent for a few minutes; after a while she said: 

“You remember the first time you met me?”

“Of course.”

“I was in difficulties then.  They culminated in the scandal of my divorce case.  Tell me, how did you think I faced all that trouble?”

“With marvelous courage.”

“In what other way can thoroughbred people face an enemy?  Suppose I had lost instead of won, suppose Jimmy had been taken from me, do you think it would have broken me?”

“I can’t imagine anything breaking you,” said Dion.  “But I don’t believe you ever pray.”

“What has that to do with it?”

“I believe the people who pray are the potential cowards.”

“Do you pray?”

“Not now.  That’s why I was smiling when I looked at the minarets.  But I don’t make a virtue of it.  I have nothing to pray for.”

“Well then, if you have put away prayer, that means you are going to rely on yourself.”

“What for?”

“For all the sustaining you will need in the future.  The people commonly called good think of God as something outside themselves to which they can apply in moments of fear, necessity and sorrow.  If you have really got beyond that conception you must rely on yourself, find in yourself all you need.”

“But I need nothing—­you don’t understand.”

“You nearly told me yesterday.”

“Perhaps if you hadn’t gone out of the room I should have been obliged to tell you, but not because I wished to.”

“I understood that.  That is why I went out of the room and left you alone.”

For the first time Dion looked up at her.  She had lifted her veil, and her haggard, refined face was turned towards him.

“Thank you,” he said.

At that moment he liked her as he had never liked her in the past.

“Can you tell me now because you wish to?”

“Here among the graves?”

“Yes.”