“Bravo, monsieur; Jolly well put from the artist’s point of view.  The idea is pretty, anyway; but is there any need for an idea at all?  Things are; and we have just to take them.”  Fort had the impression of something dark and writhing; the thin black form of his host, who had risen and come close to the fire.

“I cannot admit,” he was saying, “the identity of the Creator with the created.  God exists outside ourselves.  Nor can I admit that there is no defnite purpose and fulfilment.  All is shaped to His great ends.  I think we are too given to spiritual pride.  The world has lost reverence; I regret it, I bitterly regret it.”

“I rejoice at it,” said the man in khaki.  “Now, Captain Fort, your turn to bat!”

Fort, who had been looking at Noel, gave himself a shake, and said:  “I think what monsieur calls expression, I call fighting.  I suspect the Universe of being simply a long fight, a sum of conquests and defeats.  Conquests leading to defeats, defeats to conquests.  I want to win while I’m alive, and because I want to win, I want to live on after death.  Death is a defeat.  I don’t want to admit it.  While I have that instinct, I don’t think I shall really die; when I lose it, I think I shall.”  He was conscious of Noel’s face turning towards him, but had the feeling that she wasn’t really listening.  “I suspect that what we call spirit is just the fighting instinct; that what we call matter is the mood of lying down.  Whether, as Mr. Pierson says, God is outside us, or, as monsieur thinks, we are all part of God, I don’t know, I’m sure.”

“Ah!  There we are!” said the man in khaki.  “We all speak after our temperaments, and none of us know.  The religions of the world are just the poetic expressions of certain strongly marked temperaments.  Monsieur was a poet just now, and his is the only temperament which has never yet been rammed down the world’s throat in the form of religion.  Go out and proclaim your views from the housetops, monsieur, and see what happens.”

The painter shook his head with a smile which seemed to Fort very bright on the surface, and very sad underneath.

“Non, monsieur,” he said; “the artist does not wish to impose his temperament.  Difference of temperament is the very essence of his joy, and his belief in life.  Without difference there would be no life for him.  ‘Tout casse, tout lasse,’ but change goes on for ever:  We artists reverence change, monsieur; we reverence the newness of each morning, of each night, of each person, of each expression of energy.  Nothing is final for us; we are eager for all and always for more.  We are in love, you see, even with-death.”

There was a silence; then Fort heard Pierson murmur: 

“That is beautiful, monsieur; but oh! how wrong!” “And what do you think, Nollie?” said the man in khaki suddenly.  The girl had been sitting very still in her low chair, with her hands crossed in her lap, her eyes on the fire, and the lamplight shining down on her fair hair; she looked up, startled, and her eyes met Fort’s.