strange phantoms of our own creating, who would act anew the drama of our obstinate past follies, perplexing us thereby into an anguish greater than mortal fancy can depict.  Thus if we indeed possessed the positive foreknowledge of the eternal regeneration of our lives, ’twould be well to free them from all hindrance to perfection here,—­here, while we are still conscious of Time and opportunity.”  He paused, then went on in his customary gay manner:  “But fortunately we are not positive, nothing is certain, no truth is so satisfactorily demonstrated that some wiseacre cannot be found to disprove it, . . hence it happens my friend...” and his face assumed its wonted careless expression ... “that we men whose common-sense is offended by priestly hypocrisy and occult necromantic jugglery,—­we, who perhaps in our innermost heart of hearts ardently desire to believe in a supreme Divinity and the grandly progressive Sublime Intention of the Universe, but who, discovering naught but ignoble Cant and Imposture everywhere, are incontinently thrown back on our own resources, . . hence it comes, I say, that we are satisfied to accept ourselves, each man in his own personality, as the Beginning and End of Existence, and to minister to that Absolute Self which after all concerns us most, and which will continue to engage our best service until...well!—­ until History can show us a perfectly Selfless Example, which, if human nature remains consistent with its own traditions, will assuredly never be!”

This was almost more than Theos could bear, . . there was a tightening agony at his heart that made him long to cry out, to weep, or, better still, to fling himself on his knees and pray, . . pray to that far-removed mild Presence, that “Selfless Example” who he knew had hallowed and dignified the world, and yet whose Holy and Beloved Name, he, miserable sinner, was unworthy to even remember!  His suffering at the moment was so intense that he fancied some reflection of it must be visible in his face.  Sah-luma, however, apparently saw nothing,—­he stepped across the room, and out to the vine-shaded loggia, where he turned and beckoned his companion to his side.

“Come!” he said, pushing his hair off his brows with a languid gesture, . .  “The afternoon wears onward, and the very heavens seem to smoke with heat,—­let us seek cooler air beneath the shade of yonder cypresses, whose dark-green boughs shut out the glaring sky.  We’ll talk of love and poesy and tender things till sunset, . .  I will recite to thee a ballad of mine that Niphrata loved,—­’tis called ’An Idyl of Roses,’...and it will lighten this hot and heavy silence, when even birds sleep, and butterflies drowse in the hollowed shelter of the arum-leaves.  Come, wilt thou? ...  To-night perchance we shall have little time for pleasant discourse!”