is respectful; but presently his enthusiasm grows too much for him;
he begins to leap and frolic and utter uncouth praises of things in
general. Then Mike turns soberly and moves away.

On such an occasion, the chat went like this:

GISSING: Do you believe in God?

MIKE: I acknowledge Him. I don't believe in Him.

GISSING: Oh, I think He's splendid. Hurrah! Hullabaloo! When He puts
on those old khaki trousers and smokes that curve-stem pipe I always
know there's a good time coming.

MIKE: You have made a mistake. That is not God. God is a tall,
placid, slender man, who wears puttees when He works in the garden
and smokes only cigarettes.

GISSING: Not at all. God is quite stout, and of uncertain temper,
but I adore Him.

MIKE: No one knows God at your age. There is but one God, and I have
described Him. There is no doubt about it, because He sometimes
stays away from the office on Saturdays. Only God can do that.

GISSING: What a glorious day this is. What ho! Halleluiah! I don't
suppose you know what fun it is to run round in circles. How
ignorant of life the older generation is.

MIKE: Humph.