judged in the annual showing.” He stopped and said suddenly to Randall, “Are you a religious man? Did it ever occur to you that all this”—he included the whole quietly beautiful countryside in the sweep of his arm—“might have had a Creator? Must have had a Creator?” Randall stared and turned red. “I’m not exactly a churchgoing man,” he blurted, “but—Yes, I suppose I do believe it.” “And you, Cynthia?” She nodded, tense and speechless. “The Artist created this world, after His Own fashion and using postulates which seemed well to Him. His teacher approved on the whole, but—”
