Again Gordon was seated in Overman’s library and his single eye was asking some uncomfortable questions.

“I sent for you, Frank, because I discovered by accident, in the office of a newspaper of which I am a stockholder, that some curious things are going on between you and a young woman of your congregation. I put two and two together, and I’ve guessed the secret of your Temple. There’s more behind all this than religious enthusiasm. That gift was not laid on God’s altar, but on the altar of one of his little images here below. Out with it. You can’t fool me.”

“Well, your guess is correct. She gave the money. I love her and she loves me. Ruth will go South for the winter, and we have separated. A divorce will be obtained in due time, and I will marry Miss Ransom under the new forms of Social Freedom, and you will be my best man.”

“Not on your life,” Overman slowly growled, bringing his enormous jaws together and twisting the muscles of his mouth upward as though he smelled something.

“Can’t stand the rustle of a woman’s dress?”

“Oh, I might survive. You know they say the only really happy people at a wedding are the old bachelors.”

“Then why not?”

“I draw the line at the progressive harem idea.”

“And a bachelor?” Gordon sneered.

Overman nodded. “Many things may be forgiven sinners, but a bishop must be the husband of one wife.”

“I’m not a bishop. I’m a man. I ask no quarter of my enemies.”

“You have but one enemy. You can see him in the mirror any time.”

“It’s funny to hear you preach!”

The banker bent forward.

“Frank, you’re joking. You don’t mean to tell me that your Socialist poppy plant has borne its opium fruit so soon? That you are going to desert that charming little woman, shy, timid and tremulous, with her great soulful eyes, the bride of your youth, the mother of your babes, and take up with another woman, just as any ordinary cur has done now and then for the past four thousand years?”

Gordon winced.

“No. I am going to form a union with this beautiful woman which shall be a prophecy and a propaganda of the freedom of the race, when comrade life shall forget the ancient fears, each shall be free to find and love his own, love be loosed from tragedy, doubt or moan, each life be its own, original and masterful, each man a god, arrayed and beautiful!”

Overman laughed softly.

“So fine as that? You’re great on the frills. You have dressed it up nicely. But when two of your man-gods, arrayed and beautiful, get their eyes, set on the same woman-god, still more beautiful, arrayed or unarrayed, you’ll hear the rattle of the police wagon in the streets of Heaven, with the ambulance close behind.”

The banker grinned and fixed his eye on his friend with a quizzical look.

“Don’t be a monkey,” Gordon scowled.

“Why not? You propose to go back to forest life.”

“I propose to make human society a vast brotherhood,” the preacher cried, with a wave of his arm.

“Well, don’t forget that Cain killed his brother Abel for less than a woman’s smile.”

“Society is lost unless some great upheaval shall clear the rubbish and we build new foundations on truth and fellowship and freedom.”

Overman put his hand on Gordon’s knee.

“Frank, I’m a godless, crusty bachelor, but I read history. Destroy the integrity of the family and the salt of the earth is lost. The whole thing will rot.”

“But I propose to purify and glorify the home its life by building it on love.”

“Your dream’s a fake and its world peopled with fools.”

“Love must conquer all,” the dreamer insisted.

“And to do it, Frank, it must begin at home. You are blinded by a woman’s beauty.”

“No; I love her with the one master passion of manhood. Such love is itself the highest expression of life.”

“Confound you,” snapped Overman, “love as many women as you please, but don’t desert your wife and children. It’s too vulgar. I’m ashamed of you.”

“I will not live a lie,” Gordon said, with emphasis.

“Strange madness. I urge you to tell a tiny little polite lie and save your wife and children. You’re too good to lie, so you kill your wife, proclaim an insane crusade of lust, and call it a religion!”

“We can’t control the beat of our hearts,” was the dreamy reply.

“No, you can’t; but you can control the stroke of your big, blue-veined............