“Exactly the same difference,” he cried. “Exactly, but no greater. Christian hagiology--what a horrid word!--is on all-fours with Roman mythology. The women who used to lay flowers in the Temple of Diana bring their lilies into the chapel of the Madonna. There are chapels for all the saints, for they have endowed their saints with the powers attributed to their numerous deities by the Greeks and the Romans. There are enough saints to go round---to meet all the requirements of the most freakish and exacting of district visitors. But the Jewish prophets were very different from the mystical and mythical saints. They lived, and you feel when you get in touch with them that you are on a higher plane altogether.” “Have you found out where you saw that Temple on the mound over there, and if you have, let us know the name of the god or the goddess or saint or saintess that it was dedicated to, and I'll try to pick up a Britannia metal figure cheap to put in the grove alongside the Greek vase,” said I. He seemed in labour of thought: no one spoke for fear of interrupting the course of nature. “Let me think,” he muttered. “I don't see why the mischief I should associate a Greek Temple with Oxford Street, but I do--that particular Temple of yours.” “If you were a really religious business man you might be led to think of the City Temple, only it doesn't belong to the Greek Church,” remarked Heywood. “Let me help you,” said the Atheist's wife; “think of Truslove and Hanson, the booksellers. Did Arthur Rackham ever put a Temple into one of his picture-books?” “After all, you may have gone on to Holborn--Were you in Batsford's?” suggested Dorothy. “Don't bother about him,” said I. “What does it matter if he did once see something like our Temple; he'll never see anything like it again, unless----” “It may have been Buszards'--a masterpiece of Buszards,--pure confectioners' Greek architecture--icing veined to look like marble,” said Dorothy. “I have it---I knew I could worry it out if you gave me time,” cried Friswell. “Which we did,” said I. “Well, whisper it gently in our ears.” “It was in a scene in a play at the Princess's Theatre,” he cried triumphantly. “Yes, 1 recollect it distinctly--something just like your masterpiece, only more slavishly Greek--the scene was laid in Rome, so they would be sure to have it correct.” “What play was it?” Dorothy asked. “Oh, now you're asking too much,” he replied. “Who could remember the name of a play after thirty or forty years? All that I remember is that it was a thoroughly bad play with a Temple like yours in it. It was the fading of the light that brought it within the tentacles of my memory.” “So like a man--to blame the dusk,” said his wife. “The twilight is the time for a garden--the summer twilight, like this,” said Mr. Heywood. “The moonless midnight is the time for some gardens,” said Dorothy, who is fastidious in many matters, though she did marry me.