famous simile of the angel playing at
chess was a mistake. Very smart, I grant you, but altogether misleading.
Why! the orthodox quote it as much as the others--always a bad sign. It
tickles these anthropomorphic fancies, which are at the bottom of all
their creeds. Imagine yourself playing at chess, not with an angel, but
with an automaton, an admirably constructed automaton whose mechanism
can outwit your brains any day: calm and strong, if you like, but no
more playing for love than the clock behind me is ticking for love;
there you have a much clearer notion of existence. A much clearer
notion, and a much more satisfactory notion too, I say. Fair play and no
favour! What more can you ask, if you are fit to live?"

His kindling glance sought the farther end of the long drawing-room; had
it fallen upon me instead, perhaps that last challenge might have been
less assured; and yet how bravely it became the speaker, whose
wide-browed head a no less admirable frame supported. Even the stiff
evening uniform of his class could not conceal the grace of form which
health and activity had moulded, working through highly favoured
generations. There was latent force implied in every line of it, and,
in the steady poise of look and mien, that perfect nervous balance
which is the crown of strength.

"And with our creed, of course, we shift our moral code as well. The ten
commandments, or at least the second table, we retain for obvious
reasons, but the theological virtues must be got rid of as quickly as
possible. Charity, for instance, is a mischievous quality--it is too
indulgent to weakness, which is not to be indulged or encouraged, but
stamped out. Hope is another pernicious quality leading to all kinds of
preposterous expectations which never are, or can be, fulfilled; and as
to faith, it is simply a vice. So far from taking anything on trust, you
must refuse to accept any statement whatsoever till it is proved so
plainly you can't help believing it whether you like it or not; just as
a theorem in--"

"George," said Lady Atherley, "what is that noise?"

The question, timed as Lady Atherley's remarks so often were, came with
something of a shock. Her husband, thus checked in full flight, seemed
to reel for a moment, but quickly recovering himself, asked resignedly:
"What noise?"

"Such a strange noise, like the howling of a dog."

"Probably it is the howling of a dog."

"No, for it came from inside the house, and Tip