"By marvellous processes of prolongation and refinement--and barring accident--yes." "Processes which these poor Islanders could understand?" "We are moving in a circle," Bellingham said hastily. For the first moment, Charter felt the whip-hand over his own faculties. "I've noted the great, modern tendency to preach _body_," he said, inhaling a big breath of the fragrant air, "to make a religion of bodily health--to look for elemental truth in alimentary canals; to mix prayer with carnal subterfuge and heaven with health resorts. Better Phallicism bare-faced.... I read a tract recently written by one of these body-worshippers--the smug, black devil. It made me feel just as I did when I found a doctor book in the attic once, at the age of ten.... Whatever I may be, have done, may feel, dream or think below the diaphragm--hasn't anything to do with my religion. I believe in health, as in a good horse or a good typewriter, but my body's health is not going to rule my day." "You are young--to have become chilled by such polar blasts," Bellingham said uneasily, for he now found the other's eyes but without result. "I came into the world with a full quiver of red passions," Charter said wearily, yet strangely glad. "The quiver is not empty. I do not say that I wish it were, but I have this to declare: I do not relish being told how to play with the barbs; how to polish and point and delight in them; how to put them back more deadly poisoned. I think there are big blankets of mercy for a natural voluptuary--for the things done when tissues are aflame--but for the man who deliberately studies to recreate them without cost, and tells others of his experiments--frankly, I believe in hell for such men-maggots. Oblivion is too sweet. The essence of my hatred for these Bodyists is because of the poison they infuse into the minds of youths and maidens, whose character-skeletons are still rubbery.... But let such teachers purr, wriggle, and dilate--for they're going back right speedily to the vipers!" Bellingham's eyes had been lost in the South. He turned, arose, and after a pause said lightly, "Your talk is strong meat, young man.... I--I suffered a serious accident some months ago and cannot stay too long in one place. We shall talk again. How far do you go with the _Panther_?" "Saint Pierre." Charter already felt the first pangs of reaction. His vehemence, the burn of temper for himself, in that he had allowed the other's personality to prey upon him, and the unwonted aggressiveness of his talk--all assumed an evil aspect now as he perceived the occultist's ghastly face. In rising, Bellingham seemed to have stirred within himself centres of unutterable torture. His look suggested one who has been drilled in dreadful arcanums of pain, unapproached by ordinary men.