"You've got to preach that new religion of yours," went on Muriel when they were settled. "I hope you realise that."
Paul frowned. He liked Miss Lister, but not especially her rather parsonic manner. "I don't know that I can," he said.
"You must. Why shouldn't you?"
"I'm not sure that I see it like that myself yet."
"Surely you do. Don't you see it's just what the world is waiting for? Men and women have outgrown that old pious talk of a god that is no more than a glorified human being, and especially they've outgrown all those grave-clothes the Greek philosophers and Eastern gnostics wound about the figure of the prophet of Nazareth in order to present to the world a conception, a Jesus of the Nicene Creed. But somehow there was no way out. We all speculated as to the personality of God, except a few, who were agnostics, but you get nowhere with negations."
"I know," said Paul gravely. "That God of theirs is asleep. The oracle is silent. I know."
"Yes, and now by some stroke of genius you've put your finger on the thing that matters. Sight. The beauty of the world. 'He's good, omnipotent, a father'—that's what the theologians have said. 'It's beautiful,' say you, and that's enough."
"The gospel of sheer slothful material sentimentalism," put in Manning lazily.
She flashed on him. "Rubbish," she cried. "That's not the gospel of the Beggar-Man, is it, Mr. Kestern?"
"No," said Paul, "no, no, no; it's not that."