Many times that day it rose before me, never more vividly than when, at dinner, Mrs. Molyneux, in colours as brilliant as her complexion, and jewels as sparkling as her eyes, recounted in her silvery treble the latest flowers of fashionable gossip.  I am always glad to be one of any audience which Mrs. Molyneux addresses, not so much out of admiration for the discourse itself, as for the charm of gesture and intonation with which it is delivered.  But the main question—­the subject of Atherley’s conversion—­she did not approach till we were in the drawing-room, luxuriously established in deep and softly-cushioned chairs.  Then, near the fire, but turned away from it so as to face us all, and in the prettiest of attitudes, she began, gracefully emphasising her more important points by movements of her spangled fan.

“I do not mention the name of the religion I wish to speak to you about, because—­now I hope you won’t be angry, but I am going to be quite horribly rude—­because Sir George is certain to be so prejudiced against—­oh yes, Sir George, you are; everybody is at first.  Even I was, because it has been so horribly misrepresented by people who really know nothing about it.  For instance, I have myself heard it said that it was only a kind of spiritualism.  On the contrary, it is very much opposed to it, and has quite convinced me for one of the wickedness and danger of spiritualism.”

“Well, that is so much to its credit,” Atherley generously acknowledged.

“And then, people said it was very immoral.  Far from that; it has a very high ethical standard indeed—­a very moral aim.  One of its chief objects is to establish a universal brotherhood amongst men of all nations and sects.”

“A what?” asked Atherley.

“A universal brotherhood.”

“My dear Mrs. Molyneux, you don’t mean to seriously offer that as a novelty.  I never heard anything so hackneyed in my life.  Why, it has been preached ad nauseam for centuries!”

“By the Christian Church, I suppose you mean.  And pray how have they practised their preaching?”

“Oh, but excuse me; that is not the question.  If your religion is as brand-new as you gave me to understand, there has been no time for practice.  It must be all theory, and I hoped I was going to hear something original.”

“Oh really, Sir George, you are quite too naughty.  How can I explain things if you are so flippant and impatient?  In one sense, it is a very old religion; it is the truth which is in all religions, and some of its interesting doctrines were taught ages before Christianity was ever heard of, and proved, too, by miracles far far more wonderful than any in the New Testament.  However, it is no good talking to you about that; what I really wanted you to understand is how infinitely superior it is to all other religions in its theological teaching.  You know, Sir George, you are always finding fault with all the Christian Churches—­and even with the Mahommedans too, for that matter—­because they are so anthropomorphic, because they imply that God is a personal being.  Very well, then, you cannot say that about this religion, because—­this is what is so remarkable and elevated about it—­it has nothing to do with God at all.”