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not thought of it in this light, who had only thought,instinctively, of defending her two against the other sort of modern girl (Hester, of course, was the other sort) said: ‘Perhaps it is. Most things come to religion in the end.’

‘Well, I’m not religious,’ Captain Ingpen remarked. He certainly was not. He had no need to tell her that, Monica reflected, feeling a stir of pity for him, the ageing, stiffening creature, prowling about the bright cage with its easy chairs and irrelevant modernities. She liked feeling a stir of pity. It was pleasanter to feel pity than fear; though, now that she came to look at him in his cage, she could tell herself that the fear amounted only to a sense of wariness. One kept one’s eye on him, that was all; one was wary; as one might be with even a caged lion.

‘I’ve seen too many religions to be religious,’ he went on after a moment. ‘If I’m anything I’m a Buddhist;—an admirable solvent of all religions. But though I accept the metaphysics of Buddhism I prefer life to Nirvana. The only bother about life is that it doesn’t prefer us.—It leaves us in the lurch!’ And Captain Ingpen gave a laugh that was like the jay’s discordant cry.

Yes: it did indeed. He was at the other end of