“We are acting the part of God in turn,” observed Genius to Plucritus. “Perhaps so,” said he. “But this is a species of idolatry.” “At any rate I am not playing the part of a deceiver. I am what I appear to be.” “Not you. Half your time you spend in masquerading as the man in yon picture.” “Well, and don’t I tell you that he is my brother— my twin brother?” “All the more reason why you should steer clear of him. I’ve no faith in the love of twins. Remember Esau and Jacob.” “A pure relationship of the flesh, by which a man sold that which didn’t belong to him for a dish of red pottage.” Hereat Plucritus laughed and changed the conversation. “Have you noticed how silent Virginius has been since the farmer’s death?” he questioned. “Yes.” “He is fretting, I believe— suffering from a kind of distemper.” “Indeed?” “Yes. I should say he was labouring under an acute attack of the sulks, brought on simply because I’m a good hand at making prayers.” “Ah!” “He has not forgiven me yet for those half-dozen sentences I taught Deborah. I expect he would like to have been the instigator of them himself.” “He would have worded them differently, or at any rate under the circumstances, and knowing the facts, he would have omitted them altogether.” “Virginius is a bungler,” said Plucritus. “How can a spirit who never attempts anything ever bungle?” asked Genius impatiently. “Does he never attempt anything?” And Plucritus laughed in a harsh, disagreeable way. “Never that I can see. His only work seems to be to stand there immovable and receive insults.” “Now and again he will lay his hand lovingly on the heads of little children,” said Plucritus, mockingly. “Only to be pushed off again.”