“Oh, I don’t know:  I suppose to do one’s duty, and make the best possible use of one’s faculties, and avoid hurting other people.”

“In short, to do unto others as you would they should do unto you?”

“I suppose so.”

“Christianity.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Philip indignantly.  “It has nothing to do with Christianity.  It’s just abstract morality.”

“But there’s no such thing as abstract morality.”

“In that case, supposing under the influence of liquor you left your purse behind when you leave here and I picked it up, why do you imagine that I should return it to you?  It’s not the fear of the police.”

“It’s the dread of hell if you sin and the hope of Heaven if you are virtuous.”

“But I believe in neither.”

“That may be.  Neither did Kant when he devised the Categorical Imperative.  You have thrown aside a creed, but you have preserved the ethic which was based upon it.  To all intents you are a Christian still, and if there is a God in Heaven you will undoubtedly receive your reward.  The Almighty can hardly be such a fool as the churches make out.  If you keep His laws I don’t think He can care a packet of pins whether you believe in Him or not.”

“But if I left my purse behind you would certainly return it to me,” said Philip.

“Not from motives of abstract morality, but only from fear of the police.”

“It’s a thousand to one that the police would never find out.”

“My ancestors have lived in a civilised state so long that the fear of the police has eaten into my bones.  The daughter of my concierge would not hesitate for a moment.  You answer that she belongs to the criminal classes; not at all, she is merely devoid of vulgar prejudice.”

“But then that does away with honour and virtue and goodness and decency and everything,” said Philip.

“Have you ever committed a sin?”

“I don’t know, I suppose so,” answered Philip.

“You speak with the lips of a dissenting minister.  I have never committed a sin.”

Cronshaw in his shabby great-coat, with the collar turned up, and his hat well down on his head, with his red fat face and his little gleaming eyes, looked extraordinarily comic; but Philip was too much in earnest to laugh.

“Have you never done anything you regret?”

“How can I regret when what I did was inevitable?” asked Cronshaw in return.

“But that’s fatalism.”

“The illusion which man has that his will is free is so deeply rooted that I am ready to accept it.  I act as though I were a free agent.  But when an action is performed it is clear that all the forces of the universe from all eternity conspired to cause it, and nothing I could do could have prevented it.  It was inevitable.  If it was good I can claim no merit; if it was bad I can accept no censure.”

“My brain reels,” said Philip.