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of all he’s the son of a gentleman, and he’s been to a public
school, and to Oxford or Cambridge.’
‘Edinburgh wouldn’t do, I suppose?’ asked Weeks.
‘And he talks English like a gentleman, and he wears the
right sort of things, and if he’s a gentleman he can always tell
if another chap’s a gentleman.’
It seemed rather lame to Philip as he went on, but there it
was: that was what he meant by the word, and everyone he
had ever known had meant that too.
‘It is evident to me that I am not a gentleman,’ said Weeks.
‘I don’t see why you should have been so surprised because I
was a dissenter.’
‘I don’t quite know what a Unitarian is,’ said Philip.
Weeks in his odd way again put his head on one side: you
almost expected him to twitter.
‘A Unitarian very earnestly disbelieves in almost every-
thing that anybody else believes, and he has a very lively
sustaining faith in he doesn’t quite know what.’
‘I don’t see why you should make fun of me,’ said Philip. ‘I
really want to know.’
‘My dear friend, I’m not making fun of you. I have arrived
at that definition after years of great labour and the most
anxious, nerve-racking study.’
When Philip and Hayward got up to go, Weeks handed
Philip a little book in a paper cover.
‘I suppose you can read French pretty well by now. I won-
der if this would amuse you.’
Philip thanked him and, taking the book, looked at the
title. It was Renan’s Vie de Jesus.

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