“Yes, but you know if the world loses respectability it takes on the other thing,” Philemon remarked. “I know. Thereby testifying to its own depravity. Now for my part, the people on earth I most admire are those who have lost respectability and found something truer and deeper.” “Vestasian,” said Philemon, “you must cease, or you will be becoming, as you said—a traitor.” He threw his head back on the pillow. “I am excusable. When I am in heaven I feel for the time as those in heaven. And after all, it is not my fault that the earth is as it is. I came almost to the level of neutrality but was bound to take a side, and got pushed by an unforeseen event to the apex.” “Tell me further of Philemon,” said I. “What of him? There is nothing further to tell, except that he has done his little toward keeping others out of heaven.” “How so?” “Well, the people who patronised him and had their shoes charitably repaired at his little shed naturally would not care to associate with him here any more than on the earth. They would say he smelled of leather and begged to be excused. They might join the elements with his wife, or come to the exclusive cells of hell. But to get there one needs a rather higher order of character. It isn’t every duffer who gets to us any more than to heaven.” “I agree with you.” “You see,” he went on dreamily, his voice having sunk to a sweet monotone, “every man worth calling a man, or woman for that matter, has his little back parlour. Some call it their conscience. It’s a little empty dark place at first with no real light in it, for the backyard wall is very high. And after a time furniture begins to appear in it. An armchair grows—a kind of dentist arrangement, which brings no comfort when he sits in it. And then a table, which holds just the little things he doesn’t want to see. The carpet is nothing but a worn-out mat that shews strange stains upon the floor. And then there is the cupboard. He keeps the door shut if he can. The shelves are so dusty, the smell so musty, the skeleton so real. And the fire is a very funny fire. In winter the flames are icy cold and freeze the marrow of his bones, and in summer the fire is still there, raging hot and strong. It’s a very shabby little back parlour, even though it is built in the centre of a king’s palace. And the owner isn’t fond of going into it—because there’s nothing there of which he can be proud. Moreover, he can never take anyone in with him, not even his wife—there’s only room for one. Besides, if he could get his wife in it wouldn’t be a back parlour any longer. It would be a little homely kitchen—the sweetest of all things. Besides, she has her little back parlour too, and perhaps all her time is spent in trying to sweep away the cobwebs that will not go. And all through life the little parlour remains, and as much as possible they keep out of it and try to think it isn’t there. And then one of two things will happen. One day he will