"Oh," cried Paul, "I can't believe it, you know, I can't believe it! We four, here, and I the author of a play that--that (I know it's conceited, but I can't help it) that perhaps half London will be talking about in a week!" His little gesture took them all in: Arnold opposite, consuming trifle; Ursula on his left, tall, dark, leaning back in her chair, playing with a spoon, smiling; Muriel on his right, keen-faced, upright, fair; the bare table littered with pleasant things of glass and silver; dishes--the white débris of chicken, the shattered orange of a jelly; the shadowed spaces of the studio about them; the blue curtains; the faded Persian rug; easel; worn, easy chairs; model's throne; a shelf in the corner gleaming with the hammered copper of Ursula's collection of antique Arab coffee-pots and bowls; a standard lamp shaded with blue and old gold; a bookcase with its owner's carefully selected volumes, among which were a couple now bearing his name. And the three looked at him and read his face for a second or two in silence. They all knew what he meant. It was rather wonderful when one considered the Paul Kestern of Lambeth Court. Muriel Lister broke the little silence. "It's like you not to believe it yet," she said. Paul studied her and grew puzzled. "Why do you say that?" he asked. She threw a glance at Ursula. The two were great friends and confided in each other. Then she laughed. "You're still a bit blind, you know," she retorted. "Why?" queried Paul. "I don't see." "Exactly," nodded the other. "But come on, let's talk." Paul chose the big footstool, which, in the studio, had come to be regarded as his special right. Arnold sprawled on a couch. Muriel Lister sat on a chair by Paul. Ursula had a pile of cushions in the corner between Arnold and the fire, and said little as was her wont. "You've got to preach that new religion of yours," went on Muriel when they were settled. "I hope you realise that." Paul frowned. He liked Miss Lister, but not especially her rather parsonic manner. "I don't know that I can," he said. "You must. Why shouldn't you?" "I'm not sure that I see it like that myself yet." "Surely you do. Don't you see it's just what the world is waiting for? Men and women have outgrown that old pious talk of a god that is no more than a glorified human being, and especially they've outgrown all those grave-clothes the Greek philosophers and Eastern gnostics wound about the figure of the prophet of Nazareth in order to present to the world a conception, a Jesus of the Nicene Creed. But somehow there was no way out. We all speculated as to the personality of God, except a few, who were agnostics, but you get nowhere with negations." "I know," said Paul gravely. "That God of theirs is asleep. The oracle is silent. I know."