There is very little of the philosophy of the nineteenth
century about you, Isaacs. Your belief in the obligations of gratitude
and in the general capacity of the human race for redemption, savours
little of 'transcendental analysis.'"
"You have too much of it," he answered seriously. "I do not think you
see how much your cynicism involves. You would very likely, if you are
the man I take you for, be very much offended if I accused you of not
believing any particular dogma of your religion. And yet, with all your
faith, you do not believe in God."
"I cannot see how you get at that conclusion," I replied. "I must deny
your hypothesis, at the risk of engaging you in an argument." I could
not see what he was driving at.
"How can you believe in God, and yet condemn the noblest of His works as
altogether bad? You are not consistent."
"What makes you think I am so cynical?" I inquired, harking back to gain
time.
"A little cloud, a little sultriness in the air, is all that betrays the
coming _khemsin_, that by and by shall overwhelm and destroy man and
beast in its sandy darkness. You have made one or two remarks lately
that show little faith in human nature, and if you do not believe in
human nature what is there left for you to believe in? You said a moment
ago that I was the first grateful person you had ever met.
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