“There’s no marriage in heaven,” went on Tom Brangwen; “but on earth there is marriage.”
“That’s the difference between ’em,” said Alfred Brangwen, mocking.
“Alfred,” said Tom Brangwen, “keep your remarks till afterwards, and then we’ll thank you for them.—There’s very little else, on earth, but marriage. You can talk about making money, or saving souls. You can save your own soul seven times over, and you may have a mint of money, but your soul goes gnawin’, gnawin’, gnawin’, and it says there’s something it must have. In heaven there is no marriage. But on earth there is marriage, else heaven drops out, and there’s no bottom to it.”
“Just hark you now,” said Frank’s wife.
“Go on, Thomas,” said Alfred sardonically.
“If we’ve got to be Angels,” went on Tom Brangwen, haranguing the company at large, “and if there is no such thing as a man nor a woman amongst them, then it seems to me as a married couple makes one Angel.”
“It’s the brandy,” said Alfred Brangwen wearily.
“For,” said Tom Brangwen, and the company was listening to the conundrum, “an Angel can’t be less than a human being. And if it was only the soul of a man minus the man, then it would be less than a human being.”
“Decidedly,” said Alfred.
And a laugh went round the table. But Tom Brangwen was inspired.