and women, believers in the religion of Christ, who remain forever outside the walls of the Church; hence, also, that terrible record of murder and massacre, perpetrated through long ages with the sanction of the Church.  Where, in the religion of Christ, can one find the sanction for massacre?  It is nowhere to be found except in the Psalms of the senile sensualist—­in the commands of Moses, the leader of the marauders of the desert.  Christ swept away the barbarities of the teaching of Moses.  He perceived how miserably it had failed; how it had retarded all that was good in man, and sanctioned all that was evil.  He perceived how it had kept the nation in a condition of barbarity; how it had made it the prey of the civilized nations around it; how it had made the Hebrew nations the contempt of civilization; and yet the Church that calls itself the Church of Christ has not yet had the courage to offer humanity anything but that impossible task—­the amalgamation of the law that came by Moses and the grace and truth that came by Jesus Christ.”

He spoke with all the fervor of the preacher, with pale face, brilliant eyes, and clenched hands; but in a voice adapted to a drawing room.  Phyllis of Philistia could not but admit that, in the phrase of Philistia he had spoken in perfect taste.  He had not alluded definitely to the boldness of Ruth or to the calorific course accepted by the aged David.  He had spoken in those general terms which are adopted by the clergymen who never err against good taste as defined by the matrons of Philistia.

She did not know whether she admired him or detested him.  But she was certain that she did not love him.  He might be right in all that he had said, but she had freed herself from him.  He might be destined to become one of the most prominent men of the last ten years of the century, but she would never marry him.

She stood face to face with him when he had spoken.

There was a long silence.

A gleam, a very faint gleam of triumph came to his eyes.

“Good-bye,” said she, flashing out her hand to him, and with her eyes still fixed upon his face.

CHAPTER V.

In love there are no good-Byes.

He was so startled that he took a step backward.  She remained with her hand outstretched.

Was that only the result of the eloquent expression of his views—­that outstretched hand which was offered to him for an instant only as a symbol of its withdrawal from him forever?

“You cannot mean——­”

“Good-by,” said she.

“Have I not explained all that seemed to you to stand in need of explanation?” he asked.

“The book—­the book remains.  I asked for no explanation,” said she.

“But you are too good, too reasonable, to dismiss me in this fashion, Phyllis.  Why, even the bishop—­would sit upon a fence to see how the book would be received by the public before taking action against the author,” was what was in his mind, but he stopped short, and then added a phrase that had no reference to the bishop.  “Can you ever have loved me?” was the phrase which he thought should appeal to her more forcibly than any reference to the bishop’s sense of what was opportune.