“Every disease can be cured as soon as it is understood, or if not cured in the individual it can be eliminated in the race. Where religion is due to a mere obstruction in the brain, we shall in time be able to remove it by trepanning; but where it is a hysterical symptom, the only remedy will be to isolate the sufferers, as we now isolate the insane, and allow them to die out.” A strange light broke on Alistair. “Is not that what the Catholic Church does?” he said eagerly. “Her monks and nuns--are they not really hysterical patients who are voluntarily adopting the very course that science would prescribe for them?” The scientist grudgingly conceded that this was so. “Unfortunately the convents soon became mere refuges for the idle,” he observed. “And healthy girls were forced into them by selfish parents in order to save their dower. Still, no doubt the Protestants made a mistake in shutting up the monasteries altogether and condemning celibacy as a vice. There are plenty of cases in which it ought to be compulsory.” “Why compulsory?” Alistair pleaded. “Surely it is far better that they should take a vow of their own accord, inspired by the thought that they are helping to save the race?” The scientist shrugged his shoulders. “All that is sentiment,” he said--“one of the things for which the healthy have no use.” Alistair sighed. “How monotonous the world will be when everyone is perfect! You will have to preserve a few criminals as curiosities, like the lions and tigers in the Zoological Gardens.” Sir Bernard smiled good-humouredly. “That won’t be necessary. We shall preserve some of the savage tribes instead. They are documents of priceless value to the anthropologist.” “When does a man cease to be a priceless document, and become a criminal?” Stuart asked, with secret bitterness. The other reflected for a moment. “I suppose the answer is given by Johnson’s definition of dirt: When he is in the wrong place.” It was the answer which Alistair had given to himself that night on Westminster Bridge. He was in the wrong place. But was there any right place in the world for him? He lifted his eyes and looked away. They were sitting on the verandah of Vanbrugh’s house in the Malounine, facing eastward. The sun was just leaving the sky, and the red glow of the western horizon, caught full on the white walls and windows of St. Malo, bathed the city in fire. Alistair’s heart beat painfully as he strained his eyes on the flaming town. There was his world, there the vision that called to his soul. O, not in dingy lanes, not on the cold, grey pavements of reality, but amid those vermilion glories, his spirit should have dwelt and burned itself away.