EVE. Man need not always live by bread alone. There is something else. We do not yet know what it is; but some day we shall find out; and then we will live on that alone; and there shall be no more digging nor spinning, nor fighting nor killing. _She spins resignedly; he digs impatiently._ PART II The Gospel of the Brothers Barnabas _In the first years after the war an impressive-looking gentleman of 50 is seated writing in a well-furnished spacious study. He is dressed in black. His coat is a frock-coat; his tie is white; and his waistcoat, though it is not quite a clergyman's waistcoat, and his collar, though it buttons in front instead of behind, combine with the prosperity indicated by his surroundings, and his air of personal distinction, to suggest the clerical dignitary. Still, he is clearly neither dean nor bishop; he is rather too starkly intellectual for a popular Free Church enthusiast; and he is not careworn enough to be a great headmaster. The study windows, which have broad comfortable window seats, overlook Hampstead Heath towards London. Consequently, it being a fine afternoon in spring, the room is sunny. As you face these windows, you have on your right the fireplace, with a few logs smouldering in it, and a couple of comfortable library chairs on the hearthrug; beyond it and beside it the door; before you the writing-table, at which the clerical gentleman sits a little to your left facing the door with his right profile presented to you; on your left a settee; and on your right a couple of Chippendale chairs. There is also an upholstered square stool in the middle of the room, against the writing-table. The walls are covered with bookshelves above and lockers beneath. The door opens; and another gentleman, shorter than the clerical one, within a year or two of the same age, dressed in a well-worn tweed lounge suit, with a short beard and much less style in his bearing and carriage, looks in._ THE CLERICAL GENTLEMAN [_familiar and by no means cordial_] Hallo! I didn't expect you until the five o'clock train. THE TWEEDED GENTLEMAN [_coming in very slowly_] I have something on my mind. I thought I'd come early. THE CLERICAL GENTLEMAN [_throwing down his pen_] What is on your mind? THE TWEEDED GENTLEMAN [_sitting down on the stool, heavily preoccupied with his thought_] I have made up my mind at last about the time. I make it three hundred years. THE CLERICAL GENTLEMAN [_sitting up energetically_] Now that is extraordinary. Most extraordinary. The very last words I wrote when you interrupted me were 'at least three centuries.' [_He snatches up his manuscript, and points to it_]. Here it is: [_reading_] 'the term of human life must be extended to at least three centuries.' THE TWEEDED GENTLEMAN. How did you arrive at it? _A parlor maid opens the door, ushering in a young clergyman._ THE PARLOR MAID. Mr Haslam. [_She withdraws_].