rishes his drumsticks as if in the art of
beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But
suppose Barbara finds you out!

CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I
am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army.
The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the
curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way,
have you any religion?

UNDERSHAFT. Yes.

CUSINS. Anything out of the common?

UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to
Salvation.

CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism.
Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church.

UNDERSHAFT. The two things are--

CUSINS. Baptism and--

UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder.

CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of
our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess
it.

UNDERSHAFT. Just so.

CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor,
justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth?

UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich,
strong, and safe life.

CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or
gunpowder?

UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of
both you cannot afford the others.

CUSINS. That is your religion?

UNDERSHAFT. Yes.

The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation.
Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft.
Undershaft contemplates him.

CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between
your religion and Barbara.

UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that
drum of yours is hollow.

CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere
Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the
army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and
remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it
marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and
dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by
its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house
and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back
kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and
daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek,
the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from
his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reve