“What’s the use of my coming in when you don’t want me?” I replied. He laughed. “Of course I want you; don’t be an ass.” I came in. While we were having tea I looked over the epitome. It represented a good deal of work, and I remembered having asked him to read Blake’s “Songs,” and his refusing because he hadn’t time. It was the same with nearly everything I recommended to him, though I was always reading books to please him. He offered now to lend me the “First Principles” as soon as he should have finished it. “I don’t want it,” I answered, discontentedly. “I’m sick of all that stodgy stuff. You’re always complaining about not being able to be religious, yet you’re never happy unless you’re reading something against religion.” “I’m not anxious for a religion that won’t bear examination,” replied Owen, coldly. “No religion _will_ bear it,” I said, and both speeches had that infinite priggishness which not infrequently characterized our conversation. “People who have read a hundred times more philosophy than I have have been able to remain Christians,” Owen continued, with a naïveté that was quite lost on me. He was particularly fond just now of talking about people who had or had not read philosophy. “You’re thinking of Levine in ‘A.K.,’” I answered disrespectfully, a decreasing enthusiasm having led me to abbreviate the title of this work. “I’m not,” said Owen. “You are. And Levine doesn’t remain a Christian. He drops it and then takes it up again, and, as he hasn’t any more reason for doing one than the other, I don’t see what it proves.” “Why do you say he has no reason?” “I don’t call half a dozen words spoken by an ignorant peasant a reason. If you claim religion to be the most valuable thing in life, it oughtn’t to be at the mercy of a chance phrase. At any rate the words that affected Levine seem far from wonderful to me.” “I don’t know that they aren’t wonderful,” Owen declared. “‘One man lives for his stomach,’” I jeeringly quoted, “‘another for his soul, for God, in truth.’ You’d find the same thing in any tract. And why should it turn you to Christianity particularly? A man who believed in Pan could live just as much for his soul as a Christian.” “I don’t believe anybody ever believed in Pan,” said Owen, “any more than they believe in Father Christmas. Because certain words happened to help Levine, Tolstoy does not mean that they will help everyone.” “He does. Only you’re nearly as bad as Levine yourself.” Owen was not listening; he was working out an argument he would produce as soon as I had done; but I was beginning to be tired of Tolstoy, and I wanted to express my own point of view. “If one were to see a ghost, it would make an enormous difference,” I admitted. “It would open your eyes to a new world, to a deeper, finer world.”