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Germsell. Pardon me, you do not possess them, Mr Fussle. Lady Fritterly. Mr Fussle, might I ask you to take this cup of tea to Mrs Allmash? Mr Germsell, it would be too kind of you to hand Mrs Gloring the cake. I want you to tell me all about your religion; perhaps it may help us, you know, to find the religion of the future, which we are all longing for.
You would have very few readers, and those who read you would only sneer at what they would call your crude ideas; and indeed, you will excuse me for saying so, but I am not sure that they would not be right. Lord Fondleton. I quite disagree with you, Mr Fussle.
Indeed, Mr Rollestone, I agree with you a great deal more than with Mr Fussle. I should like to call out a higher moral force in myself but I should never have the courage to undergo all the ordeals you say it would involve; I am too weak to try. Lord Fondleton. Of course you are, don't! You are much nicer as you are.
Mr Fussle, I know it is useless to expect you; and I cannot venture to ask Mr Rollestone to anything so frivolous. But perhaps you will dine with me on Thursday you will meet some congenial spirits. Rollestone. Thank you, but I fear it will be impossible, as I leave London to-morrow. Good-bye, Lady Fritterly.
If Rollestone would write a book which would put a stop to this "religion of the future" business, he would earn the gratitude of society. Do you know, I am getting rather bored with it. Fussle.
Can you hear what Lord Fondleton is saying to Mrs Gloring at this moment? Germsell. No, and I don't want to. Fussle. Ah, there it is. You won't hear anything you don't want to. Now I can, and he ought not to say it; look how she is blushing. Oh, I forgot you are short-sighted. Well, you see, I can hear further than you, and see further than you.
Mr Germsell. Mrs Allmash asked me last night whether my thoughts had been directed to the topic which is uppermost just now in so many minds in regard to the religion of the future, and I ventured to tell her that it would be found to be contained in the generalised expediency of the past. Mr Fussle.
Then there is Mr Coldwaite, the celebrated Comtist; and Mr Fussle, who writes those delightful articles on prehistoric aesthetic evolution; and Mr Drygull, the eminent theosophist, whose stories about esoteric Buddhism are quite too extraordinary, and who has promised to bring a Khoja a most interesting moral specimen, my dear who has just arrived from Bombay; and Lord Fondleton. Mrs Allmash.
There, it is getting louder, like distant artillery, and yet so near. Oh, Mr Drygull, what a wonderful man the Rishi must be! Drygull. Yes; he knew that at this hour to-day I should need an illustration of his power, and he is kindly furnishing us with one. Germsell. Fussle. Well, now, do you know, I don't feel quite sure of that.
Mrs Allmash. Now, I should say, Mr Rollestone, on the contrary, that it was just a subject you ought to write a book about. You would have so much to tell, all your personal experiments, you know; now do. Fussle. Take my advice, Mr Rollestone, and don't.
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