“Show me a bigger, sir.”

“Faith.”

“In what?”

“In what has been revealed to us.”

“Ah!  There it is again!  By whom—­how?

“By God Himself—­through our Lord.”

A faint flush rose in Laird’s yellow face, and his eyes brightened.

“Christ,” he said; “if He existed, which some people, as you know, doubt, was a very beautiful character; there have been others.  But to ask us to believe in His supernaturalness or divinity at this time of day is to ask us to walk through the world blindfold.  And that’s what you do, don’t you?”

Again Pierson looked at his daughter’s face.  She was standing quite still, with her eyes fixed on her husband.  Somehow he was aware that all these words of the sick man’s were for her benefit.  Anger, and a sort of despair rose within him, and he said painfully: 

“I cannot explain.  There are things that I can’t make clear, because you are wilfully blind to all that I believe in.  For what do you imagine we are fighting this great war, if it is not to reestablish the belief in love as the guiding principle of life?”

Laird shook his head.  “We are fighting to redress a balance, which was in danger of being lost.”

“The balance of power?”

“Heavens!—­no!  The balance of philosophy.”

Pierson smiled.  “That sounds very clever, George; but again, I don’t follow you.”

“The balance between the sayings:  ‘Might is Right,’ and ‘Right is Might.’  They’re both half-truth, but the first was beating the other out of the field.  All the rest of it is cant, you know.  And by the way, sir, your Church is solid for punishment of the evildoer.  Where’s mercy there?  Either its God is not merciful, or else it doesn’t believe in its God.”

“Just punishment does not preclude mercy, George.”

“It does in Nature.”

“Ah!  Nature, George—­always Nature.  God transcends Nature.”

“Then why does He give it a free rein?  A man too fond of drink, or women—­how much mercy does he get from Nature?  His overindulgence brings its exact equivalent of penalty; let him pray to God as much as he likes—­unless he alters his ways he gets no mercy.  If he does alter his ways, he gets no mercy either; he just gets Nature’s due reward.  We English who have neglected brain and education—­how much mercy are we getting in this war?  Mercy’s a man-made ornament, disease, or luxury—­call it what you will.  Except that, I’ve nothing to say against it.  On the contrary, I am all for it.”

Once more Pierson looked at his daughter.  Something in her face hurt him—­the silent intensity with which she was hanging on her husband’s words, the eager search of her eyes.  And he turned to the door, saying: 

“This is bad for you, George.”

He saw Gratian put her hand on her husband’s forehead, and thought—­jealously:  ’How can I save my poor girl from this infidelity?  Are my twenty years of care to go for nothing, against this modern spirit?’