“Women are not a metaphysical people.  They do not easily follow abstractions.  They want their dogmas and religious sentiments embodied in a man, just as they do their romantic fancies.  Of course you Protestants, with your married clergy, see less of the effects of this than celibates do, but even with you there is a great deal in it.  Why, the very institution of celibacy itself was forced upon the early Christian Church by the scandal of rich Roman ladies loading bishops and handsome priests with fabulous gifts until the passion for currying favor with women of wealth, and marrying them or wheedling their fortunes from them, debauched the whole priesthood.  You should read your Jerome.”

“I will—­certainly,” said the listener, resolving to remember the name and refer it to the old bookseller.

“Well, whatever laws one sect or another makes, the woman’s attitude toward the priest survives.  She desires to see him surrounded by flower-pots and candles, to have him smelling of musk.  She would like to curl his hair, and weave garlands in it.  Although she is not learned enough to have ever heard of such things, she intuitively feels in his presence a sort of backwash of the old pagan sensuality and lascivious mysticism which enveloped the priesthood in Greek and Roman days.  Ugh!  It makes one sick!”

Dr. Ledsmar rose, as he spoke, and dismissed the topic with a dry little laugh.  “Come, let me show you round a bit,” he said.  “My shoulder is easier walking than sitting.”

“Have you never written a book yourself?” asked Theron, getting to his feet.

“I have a thing on serpent-worship,” the scientist replied—­“written years ago.”

“I can’t tell you how I should enjoy reading it,” urged the other.

The doctor laughed again.  “You’ll have to learn German, then, I ’m afraid.  It is still in circulation in Germany, I believe, on its merits as a serious book.  I haven’t a copy of the edition in English.  That was all exhausted by collectors who bought it for its supposed obscenity, like Burton’s ‘Arabian Nights.’  Come this way, and I will show you my laboratory.”

They moved out of the room, and through a passage, Ledsmar talking as he led the way.  “I took up that subject, when I was at college, by a curious chance.  I kept a young monkey in my rooms, which had been born in captivity.  I brought home from a beer hall—­it was in Germany—­some pretzels one night, and tossed one toward the monkey.  He jumped toward it, then screamed and ran back shuddering with fright.  I couldn’t understand it at first.  Then I saw that the curled pretzel, lying there on the floor, was very like a little coiled-up snake.  The monkey had never seen a snake, but it was in his blood to be afraid of one.  That incident changed my whole life for me.  Up to that evening, I had intended to be a lawyer.”

Theron did not feel sure that he had understood the point of the anecdote.  He looked now, without much interest, at some dark little tanks containing thick water, a row of small glass cases with adders and other lesser reptiles inside, and a general collection of boxes, jars, and similar receptacles connected with the doctor’s pursuits.  Further on was a smaller chamber, with a big empty furnace, and shelves bearing bottles and apparatus like a drugstore.