'Out--yes,' Minks echoed faintly, wondering why that particular word was chosen. He felt a little startled. This earnest talk, moreover, stirred the subconsciousness in him, so that he remembered that unfinished sonnet he had begun weeks ago at Charing Cross. If he were alone now he could complete it. Lines rose and offered themselves by the dozen. His master's emotion had communicated itself to him. A breath of that ecstasy he had already divined passed through the air between them. 'It's what the Contemplative Orders attempt---' he continued, yet half to himself, as though a little bemused. 'Out, by George! Out!' Rogers said again. So emphatic was the tone that Minks half rose from his chair to go. 'No, no,' laughed his chief; 'I don't mean that you're to get out. Forgive my abruptness. The fact is I was thinking aloud a moment. I meant--I mean that you've explained a lot to me I didn't understand before--had never thought about, rather. And it's rather wonderful, you see. In fact, it's _very_ wonderful. Minks,' he added, with the grave enthusiasm of one who has made a big discovery, 'this world _is_ a very wonderful place.' 'It is simply astonishing, Mr. Rogers,' Minks answered with conviction, 'astonishingly beautiful.' 'That's what I mean,' he went on. 'If I think beauty, that beauty may materialise---' 'Must, will, does materialise, Mr. Rogers, just as your improvements in machinery did. You first thought them out!' 'Then put them into words; yes, and afterwards into metal. Strong thought is bound to realise itself sooner or later, eh? Isn't it all grand and splendid?' They stared at one another across the smoky atmosphere of the London flat at the hour of one in the morning in the twentieth century. 'And when I think of a Scaffolding of Dusk that builds the Night,' Rogers went on in a lower tone to himself, yet not so low that Minks, listening in amazement, did not catch every syllable, 'or of a Dustman, Sweep, and Lamplighter, of a Starlight Express, or a vast Star Net that binds the world in sympathy together, and when I weave all these into a story, whose centre somehow is the Pleiades--all this is real and actual, and--and---' 'May have been projected by another mind before it floated into your own,' Minks suddenly interposed almost in a whisper, charmed wholly into the poet's region by these suggestive phrases, yet wondering a little why he said it, and particularly how he dared to say it. His chief turned sharply upon him. 'My own thought exactly!' he exclaimed; 'but how the devil did you guess it?' Minks returned the stare with triumph. 'Unconscious transference!' he said. 'You really think _that_?' his master asked, yet not mockingly. Minks turned a shade pinker.