“I think I see.”

“Well, they say that Religion is like that—­in other words, they practically confess that it is merely a matter of emotion.”  He paused again, trying to be fair.  “Well, perhaps they would not say that—­although it is true.  But briefly—–­”

“Well?”

“Well, they say there is a thing called Faith—­a kind of deep conviction unlike anything else—­supernatural—­which God is supposed to give to people who desire it—­to people who pray for it, and lead good lives, and so on—–­”

“And this Faith?”

“Well, this Faith, acting upon what they call Evidences—­this Faith makes them absolutely certain that there is a God, that He was made man and so on, with the Church and all the rest of it.  They say too that this is further proved by the effect that their religion has had in the world, and by the way it explains man’s nature to himself.  You see, it is just a case of self-suggestion.”

He heard her sigh, and stopped.

“Is that any clearer, Mrs. Brand?”

“Thank you very much,” she said, “it certainly is clearer. ...  And it is true that Christians have died for this Faith, whatever it is?”

“Oh! yes.  Thousands and thousands.  Just as Mohammedans have for theirs.”

“The Mohammedans believe in God, too, don’t they?”

“Well, they did, and I suppose that a few do now.  But very few:  the rest have become esoteric, as they say.”

“And—­and which would you say were the most highly evolved people—­East or West?”

“Oh!  West undoubtedly.  The East thinks a good deal, but it doesn’t act much.  And that always leads to confusion—­even to stagnation of thought.”

“And Christianity certainly has been the Religion of the West up to a hundred years ago?”

“Oh! yes.”

She was silent then, and Mr. Francis had time again to reflect how very odd all this was.  She certainly must be very much attached to this Christian friend of hers.

Then she stood up, and he rose with her.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Francis....  Then that is the kind of outline?”

“Well, yes; so far as one can put it in a few words.”

“Thank you....  I mustn’t keep you.”

He went with her towards the door.  But within a yard of it she stopped.

“And you, Mr. Francis.  You were brought up in all this.  Does it ever come back to you?”

He smiled.

“Never,” he said, “except as a dream.”

“How do you account for that, then?  If it is all self-suggestion, you have had thirty years of it.”

She paused; and for a moment he hesitated what to answer.

“How would your old fellow-Catholics account for it?”

“They would say that I bad forfeited light—­that Faith was withdrawn.”

“And you?”

Again he paused.

“I should say that I had made a stronger self-suggestion the other way.”