"It's like this, Budziszewski," Theophilus said moodily. "I don't mind that you write dialogues about me. I never have. But you pretend that I'm the author."

"What do you mean?" I said evasively.

"You know exactly what I mean. One of the characters says something provocative. You don't write 'Theophilus replied blah, blah, blah'; you write 'I replied blah, blah, blah.' I, meaning me."

"I've always written the dialogues in first person singular. So what?"

"So your readers think that I'm tooting my own horn."

"It's more likely that they think I am," I answered. "Besides, the story has to be told in someone's voice, and it's a dialogue, not an accident report. We went over all of this when the series first began. Don't you want it to be interesting?"

"So I'm the one who wants it to be interesting, am I? Don't you mean you want it to be interesting? It's your show, Budziszewski."

"It's your show too," I shot back. "After all, the whole thing is based on your conversations. When I first proposed writing them up, you thought it was a good idea."

"Are you going to hang something I said in 1998 around my neck?" he groused.

"Oh, come on. I can't believe you don't even take an interest. Why don't you come down off your high horse?"

Theophilus glanced at me queerly, then began to laugh, harder and harder.

I frowned. "What's so funny?"

"You," he gasped. "As though you'd ever let a character — use such a dated — expression!"

"Since you know everything, Theo, what would I have him say?"

"You'd say ch — ch — ch —"

I leaned closer to hear him. "What?"

"Chill!" he blurted. He wiped his eyes and tried to control himself. "Or something equally trite."

Somewhat against my will, I smiled. "I might at that — except 'chill' is already outdated."

Theophilus was still snickering, as well as doing that other silly thing I've mentioned in the dialogues — peering over at me with one eyebrow raised. It occurred to me that ever since I'd been writing about that habit, he seemed to indulge it more. Just now, though, when the tension was ebbing, didn't seem a good time to tell him.

"So," I said when his breathing returned to normal.

"So," he said.

"Why don't you tell me what's bothering you?"

"I've just told you."

"That was only your cover story."

"Why should you think there's something underneath?"

"Because I know you."

He looked sheepish.

"Out with it," I said.

"It was something on the webzine's blog," he conceded.

"Uh-huh."

"Some months ago. Back when that other webzine was shutting down."

"I didn't think you read the blog."

"I don't."

I snorted. "Go on."

"Your dialogues were coming back home to Groundless," he said.

"Nounless. And?"

"A lot of your readers were happy about it. One wrote, 'I'd love to have Theophilus back."

"What else did he write?"

"Well."

"What else did he write, Theo?"

"That my — my 'smug self-satisfaction' — always brightened up his day."

I leaned back and laced my fingers behind my neck. "Why, Professor Theophilus," I said with a broad smile, "I do believe that your feelings are hurt. You're vain."

"----!" he said.

"You can't say '----,'" I told him. "The editor won't allow it. Because of the spelling, it looks too much like a euphemism for a different word."

"It isn't a euphemism for anything. It's just vehement."

"I'm just telling you the rules. If I put that word in the dialogue, it'll just be edited out."

"Can I say '----'?"

"Not that either."

Deprived of vocal relief, he pulled his hair. "Look," he protested, "I expect these dialogues of yours to show that I have faults. But I don't expect you to make it look as though I think that I don't. If I sound 'smugly self-satisfied,' that's your doing. I've been reading your dialogues, and in every one of them I sound like a pompous ass." He paused. "I can say 'ass,' can't I?"

"I think so. Provided that you mean the animal."

He gave me a peculiar look. "Suddenly it all becomes clear."

"What?"

"When your dialogues make me sound smug, it's not my personality coming across. It's yours."

"Theo," I answered, "I don't think you do come across as smug. But if you do, what do you want me to do about it? I can't falsify the conversations, can I? If a student comes to you with a puzzle, and you try to be helpful, and that makes you sound smug, I can't help it."

"But you make me sound all-knowing."

"I do no such thing."

"You do."

"I don't. Haven't you read 'The Failure of Theophilus'? It makes you seem perfectly clueless. I should have thought you'd be happy."

"That's the only exception. One in 12 years. As though all the rest of the time I have all the answers."

"Don't you?" I teased.

"Budziszewski," he said, "that's not funny."

"I'm sorry. I'll restrain myself."

"Besides," he continued, "most of the time, even when I do have an answer, I stumble upon it by accident. Or by gracious Providence."

"What do you mean, you stumble upon it?" I set the trap in full daylight.

Settling into his chair more comfortably and gazing up at the ceiling, Theophilus said, "Let me tell you about a conversation I had not long ago. You probably can't write this one up, because it all took place by e-mail, but it illustrates my point."

Inconspicuously, I tapped the front of the pocket containing my voice recorder, turning it on. When I first began writing up the dialogues, Theo gave me permission to record, but I don't like to remind him of the fact.

"He was one of your readers," he said, "but he wrote the letter to me."

"Very proper," I answered. "What was it that he read?"

"Something or other about struggling with nihilism. Never heard of it. You must have written it a long time ago."

"Around 1300," I agreed, "anno Domini."

"He said he related to my story. Meaning yours."

"In what way?"

"He said he was struggling with belief in God. Theoretically, he'd grown up as a Christian, but he'd never quite believed that God was real. He said that what he found difficult wasn't 'the obeying part,' but 'the trust part.'"

"Why did he write to you?"

"I'm getting to that. He said that one day — this would have been about a year before he wrote — he'd simply decided to stop believing in God. For a while, he said, that gave him peace of mind. I gather this was a new feeling for him. He was completely free of care."

"Interesting," I answered.

"I thought so."

"Did it last?"

"No," Theophilus answered. "A few months ago, he'd been talking with a girl."

"Naturally."

"She challenged him."

"He'd never spoken with one before?"

"Context, Budziszewski, context. It wasn't her sex that challenged him, but something she said."

"What did she say?"

"I don't know exactly, but she challenged his casual disbelief. It got through to him. He told me that he realized for the first time what it meant to live in a world without God."

"I've seen that happen before," I said. "Atheists think that —"

"Do you mind? I'm trying to tell a story."

"Sorry, Theo. Go on."

"That's why he wrote to me. 'I can't find the meaning of life,' he said."

"If God isn't real, there wouldn't be any."

"I know, I know. He said that too. 'I'm afraid of being a nihilist,' he said. 'It's depressing. I think I'd rather brainwash myself into believing a lie that makes me happy, than live with a truth that makes me so unhappy. I'm so desperate for meaning that I've gone back to religion.'"

"How did that work for him?"

"It didn't. He said 'I'm getting nowhere. Any progress I make towards God seems like it's made out of nothing, like I'm only brainwashing myself.'"

"But isn't that what he'd said that he wanted to do?"

"Brainwash himself? Yes, and he wanted my advice and encouragement."

"Really? Advice and encouragement about how to brainwash himself?"

"So it seemed. And that presented me with a problem. I wouldn't give him that kind of advice, of course. But just the fact that he was asking for it made me wonder. Could he be trying to set me up?"

"How do you mean?"

Theophilus answered, "Most of my mail is on the level, but every now and then someone tries to bait me into saying something stupid."

"You mean so that he can post it on his personal atheist Web site."

"You take my meaning exactly."

"That's my fault," I said contritely. "I'm afraid that by writing all these dialogues, I've made you a bit of a —"

"Target," he said. "That's all right, I'm used to it. But you're impeding my story again."

"Please continue."

"Well, if this man was on the level, I wanted to help him. I thought he was — but I needed to be sure."

I asked him, "So what did you do?"

PART TWO: WHAT THEOPHILUS DID