“Got to go up the street directly,” she said, jerkily.  “What is it?”

Burton had made up his mind that the fewer words he employed, the better.

“Ellen,” he began, “you have perhaps noticed a certain change in me during the last few weeks?”

Ellen’s bosom began to heave and her eyes to flash.  Burton hastened on.

“You will find it hard to believe how it all occurred,” he continued.  “I want you to, though, if you can.  There have been many instances of diet influencing morals, but none quite—­”

“Diet doing what?” Ellen broke in.  “What’s that?” Burton came very straight to the point.

“This change in me,” he explained simply, “is merely because I have taken something which makes it impossible for me to say or see anything but the absolute truth.  I could not tell you a falsehood if I tried.  Wherever I look, or whenever I listen, I can always see or hear truth.  I know nothing about music, yet since this thing happened it has been a wonderful joy to me.  I can tell a false note in a second, I can tell true music from false.  I know nothing about art, yet I can suddenly feel it and all its marvels.  You can understand a little, perhaps, what this means?  A whole new world, full of beautiful objects and inspirations, has suddenly come into my life.”

Ellen stared at him blankly.

“Have you gone dotty, Alfred?” she murmured.

He shook his head.

“No,” he replied gently.  “If anything, I am a great deal wiser than ever I was before.  Only there are penalties.  It is about these penalties that I want to talk to you.”

Ellen’s arms became crooked and her knuckles were screwed into her waist.  It was an unfortunate and inherited habit of hers, which reappeared frequently under circumstances of emotion.

“Will you answer this one question?” she insisted.  “Why has all this made you leave your wife and home?  Tell me that, will you?”

Burton went for his last fence gallantly.

“Because our life here is hideous,” he declared, “and I can’t stand it.  Our house is ugly, our furniture impossible, the neighborhood atrocious.  Your clothes are all wrong and so are Alfred’s.  I could not possibly live here any longer in the way we have been living up to now.”

Ellen gave a little gasp.

“Then what are you doing here now?”

“I cannot come back to you,” he continued.  “I want you to come to me.  This is the part of my story which will sound miraculous, if not ridiculous to you, but you will have to take my word for it.  Try and remember for a moment that there are things in life beyond the pale of our knowledge, things which we must accept simply by faith.  The change which came to me came through eating a sort of bean, grown by an old man who was brought home from Asia by a great scholar.  These beans are supposed to contain the germ of Truth.  I have ’two here—­one for you and one for Alfred.  I want you to eat them, and afterwards, what I hope and believe is that we shall see things more the same way and come together again.”