too late to hide an awful smile.

"And how do you know," he said, "how do you know that I am not
God?"

MacIan screamed. "Ah!" he cried. "Now I know who you really are.
You are not God. You are not one of God's angels. But you were
once."

The being's hand dropped from his mouth and Evan dropped out of
the car.



XVI. THE DREAM OF TURNBULL

Turnbull was walking rather rampantly up and down the garden on a
gusty evening chewing his cigar and in that mood when every man
suppresses an instinct to spit. He was not, as a rule, a man much
acquainted with moods; and the storms and sunbursts of MacIan's
soul passed before him as an impressive but unmeaning panorama,
like the anarchy of Highland scenery. Turnbull was one of those
men in whom a continuous appetite and industry of the intellect
leave the emotions very simple and steady. His heart was in the
right place; but he was quite content to leave it there. It was
his head that was his hobby. His mornings and evenings were
marked not by impulses or thirsty desires, not by hope or by
heart-break; they were filled with the fallacies he had detected,
the problems he had made plain, the adverse theories he had
wrestled with and thrown, the grand generalizations he had