"Look here"--he jumped up eagerly--"I'll give you an illustration. It's a silly one, in a way, but it's all the better for that. It's the commonplace things people won't see. In my rooms, last term, Donaldson and Strether and I--oh, and a man called Hannam--were discussing dress. Donaldson was saying that there was no reason why a Christian shouldn't wear decent socks--clocked, gay things like his own. There was nothing wrong in them, he said. I agreed, but I couldn't help it; I said: 'Would Christ have worn them? Would He have spent an extra shilling on a yellow stripe in His socks when that shilling would send a Testament to China?' Would He? What do you think?" "He would not," she said. "Exactly." In his triumph, Paul sobered and sat down. "There's no escape," he said. Edith leant forward and prodded the soft earth with a stick. "Then you'd wear the oldest clothes and live on just anything and have no home and go about preaching," she said. "Exactly," said Paul again. "But what would happen to the world if everyone did that?" queried Edith. "That is not our concern," said Paul gravely. "I do not know and I do not care. But this I do know, if Christians started in to do that, they'd--they'd--well, they'd turn the world upside down. Which is exactly what the world said Paul and Barnabas were doing." "And so it stoned them." "So it stoned them. You're quite right. It was the Apostles' lives or their own. Heathen Rome saw the issue admirably. Heathen England doesn't. Why not? Because Christians are no longer Apostolic." The girl turned wide eyes on him. "But oh! Paul," she cried, "think what that means! It would mean giving up everything; it would mean death!" "'I can do all things through Christ that strengtheneth me'," quoted Paul gravely. The girl looked away. The heart of the rich woods grew dim before her. She fumbled for her handkerchief. Very tenderly the boy put his arm about her. "Edith, darling," he said, "don't think I don't love you. I don't think I've ever loved you more than I do now. But if Christ told us to put our love aside,--for a while, down here perhaps,--could we refuse Him?" All the woman in her revolted. "I don't know!" she sobbed. "I don't mind giving up everything else. But I could help you." Paul's own eyes clouded. "Dear, darling Edith," he said, "I know you could. And you would help too. I expect you will. Oh, I hope so--you don't know how much! But we ought to face the full bitterness of the Cross, and then, if God makes it possible, take what He gives us very gratefully. Surely you see that?" The girl dabbed at her eyes and rolled her handkerchief into a hard ball. Then she looked up at him with a wintry smile. "I shouldn't love you so much if you weren't so awfully right always, Paul," she said. (4)