“You are right,” said Speke, in his dry, cool voice. “And to my mind, as the world is constituted, the problem admits of no solution.” “In other words,” said the host, “there must always be wars and rumors of wars until God has created Himself.” “Or rather let us say,” the vicar rejoined, “until God has affirmed Himself. Hence the need for the second advent.” “I wonder if we shall realize it when it occurs,” said Speke, his hand straying to his champagne glass. “In all its fundamentals the world is as it was two thousand years ago in Palestine. If Christ walked the earth again, it is certain that he would be treated now as he was then.” “That, one cannot believe,” interposed Lady Jane with ready vehemence. “Even you admit, George, the amount of practical Christianity there is in the world. I, for one, will not believe all this sacrifice has been in vain.” “I agree with you, Lady Jane,” said the vicar. “When He comes to resume His ministry, as come He will, at all events He will find that His Church has been true. But at present, I confess, one looks in vain for a sign of His advent.” Speke shook his head. “With all submission,” he said, “if Christ appeared today he would be treated as a harmless crank, or he would be put in an asylum. Think of his reception by the yellow press--the ruler of nations, the maker of governments, the welder of empires. He would find it the same pleasant world he left two thousand years ago. Man, in sum, the vocal working majority, whether in London, Paris, Berlin, New York, or Petrograd, could not possibly meet the Master face to face or even hope to recognize him when he passed by.” “That is true, no doubt,” said the vicar, “of the mass of the people. Men of truly spiritual mold are in a hopeless minority. But they are still among us. Depend upon it, when the hour comes they will recognize the Master’s voice, depend upon it, they will know His face.” “I wonder?” said George Speke. “I am absolutely convinced of that, George.” And Lady Jane, one with the law and the prophets, gave the signal to the ladies and rose superbly from the dinner table. XII WHEN the ladies had left the room the vicar took the chair on the right of his host, and then he said across the table to George Speke: “Talking of poor Brandon, what opinion did you form of him mentally when you saw him this afternoon?” “Mentally!... I thought him rather wonderful.” The eyes of the vicar searched those of the man opposite. If this was a conventional statement it was the clear desire of those eyes to expose it. “The poise of his mind seemed to me perfect. And somehow one hadn’t quite expected it.” “You felt he was in full possession of his whole mental faculty?” “Didn’t you?” The vicar’s failure to answer the question might be taken for a negative.