“But, dear prince, you say ‘art.’  What art—­painting, sculpture, architecture, music, poetry, drama—?”

“One art,” harshly cried the now excited man, as he pounded the table with his hard fist.  “One art, my art, the fusion of all the arts.  I, Prince Igorovitch Karospina, tell you that I have discovered the secret of the arts never dreamed of by Wagner and his futile, painted music on a painted stage; I have gone, not to art, but to nature—­colour, fire, the elements.  The eye is keener than the ear, vision is easier comprehended than tone.  Ah!  I have you interested at last.”

He began walking as if to overtake a missing idea.  His niece watched him cynically.

“I fear you are boring Mr. Shannon,” she said in her most birdlike accents.  Her uncle turned on her.

“I don’t care if I am.  Go to bed!  I am nearing the climax of a lifetime, and I feel that I must talk to a sympathetic ear.  You are not bored, dear friend.  I have pondered this matter for more than thirty years.  I have studied all the arts—­painting particularly; and with colour, with colourful design I mean to teach mankind the great lessons of the masters and of religion.”

“Ah, you will exhibit in large halls, panoramic pictures, I suppose,” interrupted Shannon.

“Nothing of the sort,” was the testy reply.  “For thousands of years the world has been gazing upon dead stones and canvases, reading dead words.  Dead—­all, I tell you, all of these arts.  And painting is only in two dimensions—­a poor copy of nature.  The theatre has its possibilities, but is too restricted in space.  Music is alive.  It moves; but its message is not articulate to all.  I want an art that will be understood and admired at a glance by the world from pole to pole.  I want an art that will live and move and tell a noble tale.  I want an art that will appeal to the eye by its colouring and the soul by its beautiful designs.  Where is that legend-laden art?  Hitherto it has not existed.  I have found it.  I have tracked it down until I am the master who by a touch can liberate elemental forces, which will not destroy, like those of Illowski’s, but will elevate the soul and make mankind one great nation, one loving brotherhood.  Ah! to open once more those doors of faith closed by the imperious dogmas of science—­open them upon a lovely land of mystery.  Mankind must have mystery.  And beyond each mystery lies another.  This will be our new religion.”

Gerald had caught the enthusiasm of this swelling prologue and rose, his face alight with curiosity.

“And that art is—­is—?” he stammered.

“That art is—­pyrotechny.”  It was too much for the young man’s nerves, and he fell back in his chair, purple with suppressed laughter.  Angrily darting at him and catching his left shoulder in a vicelike grip, Karospina growled: 

“You fool, how dare you mock something you know nothing of?” He shook his guest roughly.