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 pleasure, knowledge, health, and comfort—which he knows, and you know, are the real tangible substance of modern upper-class religion."

"Oho!" cried Willys. "Getting around to my argument at last. But it doesn't sound much like what I mean by religion."

"Religion!" cried Cornelia. "Why, it isn't religion at all!"

"What is religion, my dear Cornelia?" I asked.

"Why, religion," she replied, "is what the bishops agree are the fundamental teachings of the Church."

"It is not!" I retorted, with the intimate discourtesy and dogmatism of an old friend who is also an old puritan. "My dear Cornelia," I hastened to add, "that is theology—not religion."

"Tell Cornelia," said Oliver,—whom the high Anglican tendencies of his wife rather amuse,—"tell Cornelia, Professor, what religion is."

"Your religion," I responded, "is what you actually believe in, whatever that is. My religion is what I actually believe in, whatever it is. The religion of the average American is what he actually believes in, whatever it is. What do you actually believe in, Cornelia?"

"I believe," she replied firmly, "in the Apos-