"All reputation means that, I think," he said, "unless it be mediocre--then one is safe; one has scores of friends, and scarce a foe. Mediocrity succeeds wonderfully well nowadays--nobody hates it, because every one feels how easily they themselves can attain to it. Exceptional talent is aggressive--actual genius is offensive; people are insulted to have a thing held up for their admiration which is entirely out of their reach. They become like bears climbing a greased pole; they see a great name above them--a tempting sugary morsel which they would fain snatch and devour--and when their uncouth efforts fail, they huddle together on the ground beneath, look up with dull, peering eyes, and impotently snarl! But you,"--and here his gazed rested doubtfully, yet questioningly, on his companion's open, serene countenance--"you, if rumor speaks truly, should have been able to tame YOUR bears and turn them into dogs, humble and couchant! Your marvellous achievements as a mesmerist--" "Excuse me!" returned Heliobas quietly, "I never was a mesmerist." "Well-as a spiritualist then; though I cannot admit the existence of any such thing as spiritualism." "Neither can I," returned Heliobas, with perfect good-humor, "according to the generally accepted meaning of the term. Pray go on, Mr. Alwyn!" Alwyn looked at him, a little puzzled and uncertain how to proceed. A curious sense of irritation was growing up in his mind against this monk with the grand head and flashing eyes--eyes that seemed to strip bare his innermost thoughts, as lightning strips bark from a tree.