By the time they had said good-by to the little man and had sauntered round the corner into Saint James’s Street as far as Brandon’s club, Pomfret’s amazement had grown quite disconcerting.
“I fancy when Old Uncle jumped from the Lusitania it shook him up a bit,” he said in a feeble attempt at self-protection. “He can’t be the man he was.”
“Because he sees the plenary inspiration in the Kingdom of the Something Else?”
“To think of that old hard-shell turning the theater into a church! Ye gods! It’s the most ironical thing I ever heard. Still, he can afford himself little luxuries of that kind. He’s making his soul no doubt.”
“At any rate,” said Brandon, “he’ll deserve well of heaven if he can reform the Boche.”
Before Pomfret could make suitable reply they walked into the arms of George Speke, who was augustly descending the steps of the stronghold of the Whigs.
“What!” he cried. “You!” His eyes raked Brandon from top to toe. “I can’t believe it. And one hears people say that miracles don’t happen.”
“I plead guilty to being among them,” said Pomfret; in the presence of Speke’s amazement he had a sense of intellectual relief.
“Science won’t acknowledge it as a miracle,” said Brandon. “It has a theory which fully covers the case. It was explained to me last night by Bowood, the nerve man. I forget what he called it—but what the thing amounts to is that functional reaction has been induced by counter-shock—excuse the phraseology—but Bowood says the thing is constantly occurring.”
“I affirm it as a miracle,” said Speke.