"I!" cried out Chichester.
"You. I told you I had no reason to give you as to why you attracted my attention in the street. Were you satisfied with that? Not at all. You must needs come here,—very glad to see you!—and say, 'I feel sure you must be able to give me a reason. What is it?' You clamor for a lie. And that's what men are perpetually doing—clamoring for lies. And they get 'em, from clergymen, from mediums, from so-called scientific men, and from the dear delightful politicians. There now!"
And the professor dropped his forefinger and flung himself back in his chair.
"And"—Chichester in his turn leaned forward, but he spoke with some hesitation—"and suppose I were to tell you a truth, a strange, an amazing truth?"
He paused.
"Go on!" said the professor.
"Wouldn't you do just the opposite? You say men accept lies. I say you would probably reject truth."
"Cela dépend. What you believed to be truth might not be truth at all. It might be hysteria, it might be nervous dyspepsia, it might be overwork, it might be a dozen things."
"Just what I say," exclaimed Chichester. "Men of science delight in nothing so much as in finding excuses for rejecting the greatest truths."
"Do you mean the greatest truths in the possession of Anglican clergymen?"