His low forehead wrinkled. He could not formulate his thoughts. “What?” “It wants—” And then all round a million voices echoed: “_It wants but salt!_” “Salt!” he shouted, drowning the harmonic voices in his new discovery. Hereupon the woman fell upon her knees, and almost worshipped him, kissing his hands and feet, weeping tears of pleasure on them. “Scrape me some up,” he uttered, taking advantage of her low position. She did it with her finger-nails. “Now stand back whilst I eat it.” “But I—I found it.” “Stand back, goose, and watch me eat.” “I found it first,” she whimpered. “Here’s a seed—that’s all you’re worth,” he answered. “Now I go to find more,” said he, jumping up valiantly. “You bake bread and get me butter for when I return.” “I come too!” she cried. “You eat the whole while I worky work.” “Fool—toad—weasel—monkey! bake me the bread, or I your neck am breaking!” And with that they disappeared from the page. Only the picture in its first stage remained visible. “That’s not pretty at all,” said Rosalie. “Few things are in real life,” he answered. “But that was caricature.” “Not in the way you think. It was caricature, I grant, but with a difference.” “Yes. I don’t think the eating of salt with tomato could make a man really superior, do you?” “No; but it was the fact that he discovered salt.” “But he didn’t. He was as ignorant as she till the voices whispered it.” “Nevertheless, he caught the first sound.” “Yes, of course,” said Rosalie thoughtfully. Here Mr. Barringcourt laughed. “You do not appreciate its true absurdity,” he said; “but that, maybe, is scarcely necessary. Now, that picture, or series of pictures, was painted by a woman, and sent to the man who had sent her the first.” “But how about the voices?” “Oh! she was no ordinary woman, by any means.” “Was she quarrelling with the man?” “No. They were amusing each other in wet weather.” “They paint most beautiful scenery, but I don’t like their men and women.” “You are not intended to. Now, shall we go on?” “No; I’d rather not, really. It gives me headache, and I’ve had it ever since yesterday afternoon, except for that little bit after you had healed me.” “You are tired of the Book of Divine Inspiration?” “I’m tired of the pictures; they are no better than caricatures and skits. I don’t think that’s a good book to keep in a house at all.” “You astound me! Were you not brought up to worship the Serpent?” “Yes; but the Serpent disappointed me.” “I see. You only worship a God who is content to spoil you?” She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps I’ll settle down again before long.” “I hope so. Has it ever struck you, Miss Paleaf, how completely you are in my power?” “No,” she answered, looking at him quickly. “Well, you know, I found you in the temple, in the Holiest Place—the place forbidden to women. Do you know what the punishment for that transgression is?” “No.” “To have your tongue torn out by the roots.”