“Harmless!” Mr. Perry-Hennington had difficulty in keeping his voice under control. “A man who goes about the parish proclaiming himself a god!” “He has Plotinus with him at any rate.” Again the stricken man closed his eyes. “How says the sage? ‘Surely before this descent into generation we existed in the intelligible world; being other men than now we are, and some of us Gods; clear souls and minds immixed with all existence; parts of the Intelligible, nor severed thence; nor are we severed even now.’”[1] [Footnote 1: Enn VI. 4, 14 [F. W. H. Myers].] “Really, my dear Gervase,” said the vicar, trying very hard to curb a growing resentment, “one should hesitate to quote the pagan philosophers in a matter of this kind.” “I can’t agree. They are far wiser than us in the only thing that matters after all. They have more windows open in the soul.” “No, no.” Mr. Perry-Hennington strove against vehemence. “Still, we won’t go into that.” He was on perilous ground. Of late years Brandon himself had been a thorn in the sacerdotal cushion. The modern spirit had led him to skepticism, so that, in the vicar’s phrase, “he had become an alien in the household of faith.” Now was not the moment to open an old wound or to revive the embers of controversy. But the vicar felt the old spiritual enmity, which Brandon’s stoic heroism had lulled to sleep, again stirring his blood. Therefore, he must not allow himself to be involved in a false issue. Let him keep rigidly to the business in hand. And the business in hand was: What shall be done with John Smith? It was clear at once that in Brandon’s opinion there was no need to do anything. The vicar felt ruefully that he should have foreseen this attitude. But he had a right to hope that Brandon’s recent experiences, even if they had not changed him fundamentally, would have done something to modify the central heresies. Nothing was further from the vicar’s desire than to bear hardly upon one who had carried himself so nobly, but Brandon’s air of tolerance was a laxity not to be borne. Mr. Perry-Hennington’s soul was on fire. It was as much as he could do to hold himself in hand. “You see, my dear fellow,” he said, “as the case presents itself to me, I must do one of two things. Either I must institute a prosecution for blasphemy, so that the law may deal with him, or, as I think would be the wiser and more humane course, I must take steps to have him removed to an asylum.” “But why do anything?” “I feel it to be my duty.” “But he’s so harmless. And a dear fellow.” “I wish I could share your opinion. I can only regard him as a plague spot in the parish. Insanity is his only defense and it has taken such a noxious form that it may infect others.” “Hardly likely, one would think.”