‘I beg your pardon?’ said Mr. Trimblerigg. ‘Having what?’ ‘Haven’t they been X-raying you?’ she explained inquiringly. ‘They done it to this one ’ere six times; but it don’t show like that on ’im. Does it ’urt much?’ ‘Not at all,’ said Mr. Trimblerigg, smiling: and then, taking a plunge at his public, for others were listening. ‘This is merely a first experiment, I didn’t think anyone would notice it.’ He was aware that, as he spoke, the eyes of all his fellow-passengers had gravitated towards him; that he was exciting more undivided interest now than when he first got in. Just then the conductor came along to collect his fare, and Mr. Trimblerigg, who knew the amount of it, tendered a three-penny bit, without comment. ‘Angel, sir?’ inquired the man encouragingly, naming a destination, intent on his job. Somebody at the far end tittered, and a smile went down the row of faces opposite. That remark, and its reception, revealed to Mr. Trimblerigg more than anything which had yet happened, the unfortunate position in which any approach to the truth placed him. The spirit of the age was not attuned to receive it seriously, far less with reverence. Dispensations of Providence such as this no longer entered into the calculations of men’s minds; nor was seeing believing, except on lines purely material. Surrounded by that atmosphere of scepticism which he felt in his bones, Mr. Trimblerigg had himself succumbed, and spoken, not as a man of faith having things of mystery to declare, but as an experimentalist, peddling in science--so adapting himself to a public which had no use for things spiritual: truly an inglorious demonstration of his famous thesis that truth is only relative. The old lady and her companion got out, looking back at him as they went with slightly scared eyes and puzzled smiles. One of the newspaper readers moved up and sat next to him. The bus had halted under the gloom of a broad railway arch, and he became aware that a gentle light, emanating from himself, fell upon the faces on either side of him. The newspaper reader, making acknowledgment with a pleased smile, tilted his newspaper so as to obtain the benefit. ‘Very convenient,’ he murmured; ‘quite a new idea. Where can one get it?’ And so challenged Mr. Trimblerigg still had not the courage to explain. ‘I haven’t the maker’s name,’ he said. ‘It isn’t mine. I’m only trying it.’ And hearing himself so speak, he sat aghast; it was horrible thus to be denying the light that was in him. Yet what else could he say, so as to be believed? ‘How do you put it on?’ pursued his interrogator. ‘What is it, luminous paint?’ ‘No, nothing of that sort,’ he replied. ‘It’s a secret. I mustn’t explain.’ And then, though he had not reached his destination, unable to bear it any more, he called for a stop and got out.