"Faith! It isn't faith! It's sight, I tell you. Why, man, look here, if Manning were to come gravely to my room to-night and argue that you were a myth, what the blazes do you think I should say? I should laugh in his face! 'Why, I had tea with him this afternoon,' I should say! And it's the same with Jesus. Dick"—the eager voice hushed a little—"we're having tea with Him this afternoon."
Hartley did not laugh. He half glanced round. "Can one act on that altogether?" he queried.
Paul flung out his hand with an eager gesture. "Why not?" he cried. "One should act on it absolutely I think."
Hartley spoke slowly. "Well, but would Christ stay here, read Harnack, take in a newspaper" (his eyes roved the room), "row, get new window-curtains, and—and fall in love?" His gaze rested on a portrait on the mantelpiece.
Paul's hand fell to his side. He, too, glanced round the simple, commonplace, in the opinion of most people severely plain room. Then he dropped into a chair. "You must ask Him," he said slowly.
"Suppose I have?"
"Then you must do what He says."
Dick was altogether more slow, more solid, than Paul. He began to make tea. "It's odd," he said, busy over the cups, "but I'm not sure that I know."
"Ah," said Paul, still triumphant and impetuous, "I asked you if you really knew Him, Dick."
(3)