“How about God?” inquired Dr. Dean with a curious air, as if he were propounding a remarkable conundrum.

“God!” Gervase laughed loudly.  “Pardon!  Are you a clergyman?”

“By no means!” and the Doctor gave a little bow and deprecating smile.  “I am not in any way connected with the Church.  I am a doctor of laws and literature,—­a humble student of philosophy and science generally...”

“Philosophy!  Science!” interrupted Gervase.  “And you ask about God!  Parbleu!  Science and philosophy have progressed beyond Him!”

“Exactly!” and Dr. Dean rubbed his hands together pleasantly.  “That is your opinion?  Yes, I thought so!  Science and philosophy, to put it comprehensively, have beaten poor God on His own ground!  Ha! ha! ha!  Very good—­very good!  And humorous as well!  Ha! ha!”

And a very droll appearance just then had this “humble student of philosophy and science generally,” for he bent himself to and fro with laughter, and his small eyes almost disappeared behind his shelving brows in the excess of his mirth.  And two crosslines formed themselves near his thin mouth—­such lines as are carven on the ancient Greek masks which indicate satire.

Denzil Murray flushed uncomfortably.

“Gervase doesn’t believe in anything but Art,” he said, as though half apologizing for his friend:  “Art is the sole object of his existence; I don’t believe he ever has time to think about anything else.”

“Of what else should I think, mon ami?” exclaimed Gervase mirthfully.  “Of life?  It is all Art to me; and by Art I mean the idealization and transfiguration of Nature.”

“Oh. if you do that sort of thing you are a romancist,” interposed Dr. Dean emphatically.  “Nature neither idealizes nor transfigures itself; it is simply Nature and no more.  Matter uncontrolled by Spirit is anything but ideal.”

“Precisely,” answered Gervase quickly and with some warmth; “but my spirit idealizes it,—­my imagination sees beyond it,—­my soul grasps it.”

“Oh, you have a soul?” exclaimed Dr. Dean, beginning to laugh again.  “Now, how did you find that out?”

Gervase looked at him in a sudden surprise.

“Every man has an inward self, naturally,” he said.  “We call it ‘soul’ as a figure of speech; it is really temperament merely.”

“Oh, it is merely temperament?  Then you don’t think it is likely to outlive you, this soul—­to take new phases upon itself and go on existing, an immortal being, when your body is in a far worse condition (because less carefully preserved) than an Egyptian mummy?”

“Certainly not!” and Gervase flung away the end of his finished cigarette.  “The immortality of the soul is quite an exploded theory.  It was always a ridiculous one.  We have quite enough to vex us in our present life, and why men ever set about inventing another is more than I am able to understand.  It was a most foolish and barbaric superstition.”