"That may be. But he was dodging about in a jolly feeble case," said I.
"You mean?"
"That he's wrong. I don't think he proves his case. I don't think Christianity is true. He knows himself for the pretender he is. His reasoning's--Rot."
Mr. Gabbitas went, I think, a shade paler than his wont, and propitiation vanished from his manner. His eyes and mouth were round, his face seemed to get round, his eyebrows curved at my remarks.
"I'm sorry you think that," he said at last, with a catch in his breath.
He did not repeat his suggestion that I should sit. He made a step or two towards the window and turned, "I suppose you will admit--" he began, with a faintly irritation note of intellectual condescension. . . .
I will not tell you of his arguments or mine. You will find if you care to look for them, in out-of-the-way corners of our book museums, the shrivelled cheap publications--the publications of the Rationalist Press Association, for example--on which my arguments were based. Lying in that curious limbo with them, mised up with them and indistinguishable, are the endless "Replies" of orthodoxy, like the mixed dead in some hard-fought trench. All those disputes of our fathers, and they were sometimes
