r, did not divulge his intention of taking orders to him
till ten days afterwards, when he had carried off Langham to stay at
Harden, and he and his old tutor were smoking in his mother's little
garden one moonlit night.

When he had finished his statement Langham stood still a moment watching
the wreaths of smoke as they curled and vanished. The curious interest
in Elsmere's career, which during a certain number of months had made
him almost practical, almost energetic, had disappeared. He was his own
languid, paradoxical self.

'Well, after all,' he said at last, very slowly, 'the difficulty lies in
preaching anything. One may as well preach a respectable mythology as
anything else.'

'What do you mean by a mythology?' cried Robert hotly.

'Simply ideas, or experiences, personified,' said Langham, puffing away.
'I take it they are the subject-matter of all theologies.'

'I don't understand you,' said Robert, flushing. 'To the Christian,
facts have been the medium by which ideas the world could not otherwise
have come at have been communicated to man. Christian theology is a
system of ideas indeed, but of ideas realised, made manifest in facts.'

Langham looked at him for a moment, undecided; then that suppressed
irritation we have already spoken of broke through. 'How do you know
they are facts?' he said drily.

The younger man took up the challenge with all his natural eagerness,
and the conversation resolved itself into a discussion of Christian
evidences. Or rather Robert held forth, and Langham kept him going by an
occasional remark which acted like the prick of a spur. The tutor's
psychological curiosity was soon satisfied. He declared to himself that
the intellect had precious little to do with Elsmere's Christianity. He
had got hold of all the stock apologetic arguments, and used them, his
companion admitted, with ability and ingenuity. But they were merely the
outworks of the citadel. The inmost fortress was held by something
wholly distinct from intellectual conviction--by moral passion, by love,
by feeling, by that mysticism, in short, which no healthy youth should
be without.

'He imagines he has satisfied his intellect,' was the inward comment of
one of the most melancholy of sceptics, 'and he has never so much as
exerted it. What a brute I am to protest!'

And suddenly Langham threw up the sponge. He held out his hand to his
companion, a momentary gleam of tenderness in his black eyes, such as o