DO WE TRULY DIE?
rounded by a sort of beautiful things, made, so we are told, from the smells of the things we have here. That is curious, but not irrational. Our favourite doggies will be there. Sublimated also. That thought has been a great comfort to Lady Burrows. . . . We had a dog called Fido, a leetle, teeny fellow—practically human. . . .
"These blessed ones engage very largely in conversation. Other occupations I found difficult to trace. Raymond attended a sort of reception on the very highest plane. It was a special privilege. Perhaps a compliment to Sir Oliver. He met the truth of revealed religion, so to speak, personally. It was a wonderful moment. Sir Oliver suppresses the more solemn details. Lady Burrows intends to write to him. She is anxious for particulars. But I will not dilate," said Sir Eliphaz. "I will not dilate."
"And you believe this stuff?" said the doctor in tones of the deepest disgust.
Sir Eliphaz waved himself upon the questioner.
"So far as poor earthly expressions can body forth spiritual things," he hedged.
He regarded his colleagues with an eye of florid defiance. Both Mr. Farr and Mr. Dad had slightly shamefaced expressions, and Mr. Dad's ears were red.
Mr. Dad cleared his throat. "I'm sure there's something in it—anyhow," said Mr. Dad hoarsely, doing his best in support.
"If I was born with a hare lip," said the doctor, "would that be put right? Do congenital idiots get sublimated? What becomes of a dog one has shot for hydrophobia?"
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