David expressed some such opinions which rather scandalized his father who had grown up in the conventional school of unbounded, unreasoning reverence for the Hebrew, Greek and Keltic classics.  From that they passed to the great problems, the undeterminable problems of the Universe; the awful littleness of men—­mere lice, perhaps, on the scurfy body of a shrinking, dying planet of a fifth-rate sun, one of a billion other suns.  The Revd.  Howel like most of the Christian clergy of all times of course never looked at the midnight sky or gave any thought to the terrors and mysteries of astronomy, a science so modern, in fact, that it only came into real existence two or three hundred years ago; and is even now only taken seriously by about ten thousand people in Europe and America.  Where, in this measureless universe—­which indeed might only be one of several universes—­was God to be found?  A God that had been upset by the dietary of a small desert tribe, who fussed over burnt sacrifices and the fat of rams at one time; at another objected to censuses; at another and a later date wanted a human sacrifice to placate his wrath; or who had washed out the world’s fauna and flora in a flood which had left no geological evidence to attest its having taken place.  “Did you ever think about the Dinosaurs, father?” said David at the end of some such tirade—­an outburst of free-thinking which in earlier years might have upset that father to wrath and angry protest, but which now for some reason only left him dazed and absent-minded. (It was the Colonies that had done it, he thought, and the studio talk of that dilettante architect.  By and bye, David would distinguish himself at the Bar, marry and settle down, and resume the orthodox outlook of the English—­or as he liked to call it—­the British Church.)

“The Dinosaurs, my boy?  No.  What were they?”

David:  “The real Dragons, the Dragons of the prime, that swarmed over England and Wales and Scotland, and Europe, Asia, and North America—­and I dare say Africa too.  One of the most stupendous facts of what you call ‘creation,’ though perhaps only one amongst many skin diseases that have afflicted the planet—­Well the Dinosaurs went on developing and evolving and perfecting—­so Rossiter says—­for three million years or so—­Then they were scrap-heaped.  What a waste of creative energy!...”

Father:  “Ah it’s Rossiter who puts all these ideas into your head, is it?”

David (flushing); “Oh dear no!  I used to think about them at (is about to say ‘Newnham,’ but substitutes ’Malvern’)—­at Malvern—­”

Father (drily):  “I’m glad to hear you thought about something—­serious—­at any rate—­then, in the midst of your scrapes and truancies—­but go on, dear boy.  It’s a delight to me to hear you speak.  It reminds me—­I mean your voice does—­of your poor mother.  You know I loved her very tenderly, David, and though it is all past and done with I believe