As for the babe of love, we’re simply tired of changing its napkins. Put the brat down, and let it learn to run about, and manage its own little breeches. But it’s nice to think that all the gods are God all the while. And if a god only genuinely feels to you like God, then it _is_ God. But if it doesn’t feel quite, quite altogether like God to you, then wait awhile, and you’ll hear him fizzle. The novel knows all this, irrevocably. “My dear,” it kindly says, “one God is relative to another god, until he gets into a machine; and then it’s a case for the traffic cop!” “But what am I to do!” cries the despairing novelist. “From Amon and Ra to Mrs. Eddy, from Ashtaroth and Jupiter to Annie Besant, I don’t know where I am.” “Oh yes you do, my dear!” replies the novel. “You are where you are, so you needn’t hitch yourself on to the skirts either of Ashtaroth or Eddy. If you meet them, say _how-do-you-do!_ to them quite courteously. But don’t hook on, or I shall turn you down.” “Refrain from hooking on!” says the novel. “But be honorable among the host!” he adds. Honour! Why, the gods are like the rainbow, all colours and shades. Since light itself is invisible, a manifestation has got to be pink or black or blue or white or yellow or vermilion, or “tinted”. You may be a theosophist, and then you will cry: _Avaunt! Thou dark-red aura! Away!!!--Oh come! Thou pale-blue or thou primrose aura, come!_ This you may cry if you are a theosophist. And if you put a theosophist in a novel, he or she may cry _avaunt!_ to the heart’s content. But a theosophist cannot be a novelist, as a trumpet cannot be a regimental band. A theosophist, or a Christian, or a Holy Roller, may be _contained_ in a novelist. But a novelist may not put up a fence. The wind bloweth where it listeth, and auras will be red when they want to. As a matter of fact, only the Holy Ghost knows truly what righteousness is. And heaven only knows what the Holy Ghost is! But it sounds all right. So the Holy Ghost hovers among the flames, from the red to the blue and the black to the yellow, putting brand to brand and flame to flame, as the wind changes, and life travels in flame from the unseen to the unseen, men will never know how or why. Only travel it must, and not die down in nasty fumes. And the honour, which the novel demands of you, is only that you shall be true to the flame that leaps in you. When that Prince in _Resurrection_ so cruelly betrayed and abandoned the girl, at the beginning of her life, he betrayed and wetted on the flame of his own manhood. When, later, he bullied her with his repentant benevolence, he again betrayed and slobbered upon the flame of his waning manhood, till in the end his manhood is extinct, and he’s just a lump of half-alive elderly meat.