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--" "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.