The tilted eye-glasses of the old gentleman fell abruptly from
his nose, and he thrust his aristocratic chin so far forward that
his lean neck seemed to shoot out longer like a telescope.

"About God?" he queried, in a key completely new.

"Look here!" cried Turnbull, taking his turn roughly, "I'll tell
you what it's all about. I think that there's no God. I take it
that it's nobody's business but mine--or God's, if there is one.
This young gentleman from the Highlands happens to think that
it's his business. In consequence, he first takes a walking-stick
and smashes my shop; then he takes the same walking-stick and
tries to smash me. To this I naturally object. I suggest that if
it comes to that we should both have sticks. He improves on the
suggestion and proposes that we should both have steel-pointed
sticks. The police (with characteristic unreasonableness) will
not accept either of our proposals; the result is that we run
about dodging the police and have jumped over our garden wall
into your magnificent garden to throw ourselves on your
magnificent hospitality."

The face of the old gentleman had grown redder and redder during
this address, but it was still smiling; and when he broke out it
was with a kind of guffaw.

"So you really want to fight with drawn swords in my garden," he
asked, "about whether there is really a God?"

"Why not?" said MacIan, with his simple monstrosity of speech;
"all man's worship began when the Garden of Eden was founded."