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it work? It cannot be material vibrations, because distance makes no difference to it. You have

to suppose that one mind can dip into another mind at will and get anything it wants. And is

that easier to credit than survival of the personality?"

Said Lanny: "It is reasonable to think that there might be a core of the consciousness which

survives for a time, just as the skeleton survives the body." But he saw that this wasn't a

pleasing image to the old gentleman, and hastened to add: "Maybe time isn't a fundamental

reality; maybe everything which has ever existed still exists in some form beyond our reach or

understanding. We have no idea what reality may be, or our own relationship to it. Maybe we

make immortality for ourselves by desiring it. Bernard Shaw says that birds grew wings

because they desired and needed to fly."

The Knight Commander and Grand Officer had never heard of Back to Methuselah, and

Lanny told him about that metabiological panorama. They talked about abstruse subjects until

they were like Milton's fallen angels, in wand'ring mazes lost; also until Lanny remembered

that he had to take his wife to a dinner-party. He left the old gentleman in a much happier

frame of mind, but he felt a little guilty, thinking: "I hope Robbie doesn't have any more stocks

to sell him!"

IX

Lanny found his wife dressing, and while he was doing the same she told him some news.

"Uncle Jesse was here."

"Indeed?" replied Lanny. "Who saw him?"

"Beauty was in town. I had quite a talk with him."

"What's he doing?"

"He's absorbed in his election campaign."

"How could he spare the time to come here?"

"He came on business. He wants you to sell some of his paint-ings."

"Oh, my God, Irma! I can't sell those things, and he knows it."

"Aren't they good enough?"

"They're all right in a way; but they're quite undistinguished-there must be a thousand

painters in Paris doing as well."

"Don't they manage to sell their work?"

"Sometimes they do; but I can't recommend art unless I know it has special merit."

"They seemed to me quite charming, and I should think a lot of other people would like

them."

"You mean he brought some with him?"

"A whole taxicab-load. We had quite a show, all afternoon; that, and the Comintern, and

that-what is it?—diagrammatical?—"

"Dialectical materialism?"

"He says he could make a Communist out of me if it wasn't for my money. So he tried to get

some of it away from me."

"He asked you for money?"

"He may be a bad painter, dear, but he's a very good salesman."

"You mean you bought some of those things?"

"Two."

"For the love of Mike! What did you pay?"

"Ten thousand francs apiece."

"But, Irma, that's preposterous! He never got half that for a painting in all his life."

"Well, it made him happy. He's your mother's brother, and I like to keep peace in the family."

"Really, darling, you don't have to do things like that. Beauty won't like it a bit."

"It's much easier to say yes than no," replied Irma, watching in the mirror of her dressing-

table while her maid put the last touches to her coiffure. "Uncle Jesse's not a bad sort, you

know."

"Where are the paintings?" asked the husband.

"I put them in the closet for the present. Don't delay now, or we'll be late."

"Let me have just a glance."

"I didn't buy them for art," insisted the other; "but I do like them, and maybe I'll hang them

in this room if they won't hurt your feelings."

Lanny got out the canvases and set them up against two chairs. They were the regular

product which Jesse Blackless turned out at the rate of one every fortnight whenever he chose.

One was a little gamin, and the other an old peddler of charcoal; both sentimental, because Uncle

Jesse really loved these рооr people and imagined things about them which fitted in with his

theories. Irma didn't have such feelings, but Lanny had taught her that she ought to, and

doubtless she was trying. "Are they really so bad?" she asked.

"They aren't any bargain," he answered.

"It's only eight hundred dollars, and he says he's broke on account of putting everything into

the campaign. You know, Lanny, it might not be such a bad thing to have your uncle a member

of the Chamber."

"But such a member, Irma! He'll make himself an international scandal. I ought to have

mentioned to you that he's gone into a working-class district and is running against a

Socialist."

"Well," said the young wife, amiably, "I'll help the Socialist, too, if you wish it."

"You'll take two horses, and hitch one to the front of your cart and one to the back, and drive

them as hard as you can in opposite directions."

Irma wasn't usually witty; but now she thought of Shore Acres, and said: "You know how it is,

I've been paying men right along to exercise my horses."

X

Alfred Pomeroy-Nielson the younger was at school in England; he came to Bienvenu for the

Easter vacation, and he and Marceline took up their life at the point where they had dropped it

on board the Bessie Budd, a year and a half ago. Meanwhile they had been getting ready for

each other, and at the same time making important discoveries about themselves.

The daughter of Marcel Detaze and Beauty Budd, not quite fourteen, was at that point

"where the brook and river meet, womanhood and childhood fleet." Like the diving-champion

on the end of a springboard, with every muscle taut, the body poised in the moment of swaying

forward, so she presented herself above the swimming-pool of fashion, pleasure, and so many

kinds of glory. She had gazed into it as a fascinated spectator and now was getting ready to

plunge—much sooner than any member of her family knew or desired. That was her secret;

that was the meaning of the fluttering heart, the flushed cheeks, the manner of excitement—she

couldn't wait to begin to live!

Marceline loved her mother, she adored her handsome and fashionable half-brother, she

looked with awe upon the blooming Juno who had come recently into her life, surrounded by

a golden aura, talked about by everybody, pictured in the newspapers—in short, a queen of

plutocracy, that monde which Marceline had been taught to consider beau, grand, haut, chic,

snob, elegant, et d'élite. She was going to show herself off in it, and no use trying to change

her mind. Men were beginning to look at her, and she was not failing to notice that or to know

what it meant. Hadn't it been in the conversation of all the smart ladies since she had begun to

understand the meaning of words? Those ladies were growing old, they were on the way out—

and Marceline was coming, it was her turn!

And now this English lad, of almost the same age as herself, and destined, in the family

conversation, to become her life partner. Maybe so, but first there were a few problems to be

settled; first it was necessary to determine who would be the boss in that family. Alfy was

serious, like his father; extremely conscientious, more reticent than seemed natural in one so

young, and tormented by a secret pride. Marceline, on the other hand, was impulsive, exuberant,

talkative, and just as proud in her own way. Each of these temperaments was in secret awe of

the other; the natural strangeness of a youth to a maid and of a maid to a youth accentuated

their differences and offended their self-esteem. Was he scorning her when he was silent? Was

she teasing him when she laughed? Exasperation was increased by arrogance on both sides.