“To a being without one?”
“To any one,” said my cousin Melville, suddenly admitting his difficulty.
He meditated upon her eyes for a moment.
“Besides,” he said, “you know what a soul is perfectly well.”
“No,” she answered, “I don’t.”
“You know as well as I do.”
“Ah! that may be different.”
“You came to get a soul.”
“Perhaps I don’t want one. Why—if one hasn’t one——?”
“Ah, there!” And my cousin shrugged his shoulders. “But really you know— It’s just the generality of it that makes it hard to define.”
“Everybody has a soul?”
“Every one.”
“Except me?”
“I’m not certain of that.”
“Mrs. Bunting?”
“Certainly.”
“And Mr. Bunting?”
“Every one.”
“Has Miss Glendower?”
“Lots.”
The Sea Lady mused. She went off at a tangent abruptly.
“Mr. Melville,” she said, “what is a union of soul
