ome about eleven, was surprised to see a light in
his sitting-room window. As he entered, his landlady informed him that
Mr. Moxey had been waiting upstairs for an hour or two. Christian was
reading. He laid down the book and rose languidly. His face was
flushed, and he spoke with a laugh which suggested that a fit of
despondency (as occasionally happened) had tempted him to excess in
cordials. Godwin understood these signs. He knew that his friend's
intellect was rather brightened than impaired by such stimulus, and he
affected not to be conscious of any peculiarity.

'As you wouldn't come to me,' Christian began, 'I had no choice but to
come to you. My visit isn't unwelcome, I hope?'

'Certainly not. But how are you going to get home? You know the time?'

'Don't trouble. I shan't go to bed to-night. Let me sit here and read,
will you? If I feel tired I can lie down on the sofa. What a delightful
book this is! I must get it.'

It was a history of the Italian Renaissance, recently published.

'Where does this phrase come from?' he continued, pointing to a scrap
of paper, used as a book-mark, on which Godwin had pencilled a note.
The words were: '_Foris ut moris, intus ut libet_.'

'It's mentioned there,' Peak replied, 'as the motto of those humanists
who outwardly conformed to the common faith.'

'I see. All very well when the Inquisition was flourishing, but sounds
ignoble nowadays.'

'Do you think so? In a half-civilised age, whether the sixteenth or the
nineteenth century, a wise man may do worse than adopt it.'

'Better be honest, surely?'

Peak stood for a moment as if in doubt, then exclaimed irritably:

'Honest? Honest? Who is or can be honest? Who truly declares himself?
When a man has learnt that truth is indeterminable, how is it more
moral to go about crying that you don't believe a certain dogma than to
concede that the dogma may possibly be true? This new morality of the
agnostics is mere paltry conceit. Why must I make solemn declaration
that I don't believe in absolute knowledge? I might as well be called
upon to inform all my acquaintances how I stand with regard to the
theories of chemical affinity. One's philosophy has nothing to do with
the business of life. If I chose to become a Church of England
clergyman, what moral objection could be made?'

This illustration was so amusing to Moxey, that his surprise at what
preceded gave way to laughter.

'I wonder,' he exclaimed, 'that you never