"Wullie. I asked him."

"I wouldn't have told you, yet. But it's right you should know. You saw
how it was with your father. Whisky ruled him. It rules all your menfolk
like that. It wasn't till his body grew weak with sickness--and
sickness, mind you, caused by the whisky--that he got it in hand. Then,
you see, it was too late. He conquered a wounded foe. And, of course, he
died. If he'd got religion earlier, perhaps--and, after all, that's only
another obsession."

"Poor father," she whispered.

"If your father, without religion or anything, could have conquered,
Marcella, he'd have been a very heroic figure. He'd have left footprints
in the sand of time, as the poet said."

Marcella nodded. This was the first time the idea of conscious heroism
came to her. She said rather breathlessly:

"But are bodies _wicked_, doctor? Lots of people seem to think so. Aunt
Janet thinks people's bodies are _wrong_. All saints seem to think that
too."

"They're very splendid and bonny if you can keep them in hand. Christ
taught that bodies--Humanity, that is--are the veils of God. It's only
when bodies get out of hand that they go wrong and put a man in hell. I
expect the idea of Trinity-worship that we get in most religions was an
unconscious aiming at this truth, that to be a perfect human being you
must be the Trinity--body, brain and spirit. But we're not up to that