alking of the past. Their conversation ran gradually into a clearly
defined discussion in which both minds were compelled to think quickly,
and they found new joy in their love. Even now, when their whole minds
were swayed by emotion, they were able to think, to talk, and to be
alive to everything in the world of intellect.

Art, religion, and life, all in a grand mix-chaotic tangle. Lawrence
was talking for the joy of his thought to the woman who he knew would
enjoy it.

"You see, Claire," he said after a long discussion, "in the religious
instinct we find very little besides a fear of the unknown. What else
there is in it is the more valuable part, and it is this lesser section
that we can develop and use to advantage."

"What is this lesser section?" she asked.

"The vital desire to create for our God's sake. If we could build that
into its real place, stimulated as it is by the overwhelming
appreciation of beauty in nature, we could establish something far more
worth while than a mere deceiving of men about their own kind, their
faults, and their relations."

"You aren't quite fair, Lawrence," she protested. "In so far as the
church makes for a stronger socialization, it is a good."

"But does it always promote that very effectively? Most of the
socialization could be better carried on where really educated people
were educators. The few of them there are in our schools now are
hampered as much as they are helped by the church."

"I don't agree," she said. "The church does hamper education in higher
branches, undoubtedly, but in the kindergartens and grades it is a
good."

"I don't know," he responded; "I never saw it."

"Well," she cried suddenly, and laughed, "whatever we think of the
church, I agree that religion isn't always there, and when it is,
barring a few liberal exceptions, it is generally misdirected."

"And here you and I sit in the Andes Mountains talking when we might be
making love," he laughed.

"And here we are making love under the pretense of being intellectual,"
she rejoined. "What would we do without the dear deceptions that make us
such pitiably delightful animals?"

"We'd be a hopelessly unimaginative set of eaters." His answer was
quick. "I am convinced that it is our very power to deceive, plan grand
follies, though petty in deeds, that makes us artists, dreamers,
thinkers, and statesmen."

"Perhaps," she agreed, and then slipped her arms around him suddenly.
"Is that what