After breakfast he invited her to his study, “for,” said he, “I wish to have some conversation with you before eight o’clock. After that I am engaged till twelve, and rarely find much spare time till evening has closed, and to-night I cannot spare you even that.” When they were both seated there, he began the conversation by saying: “Last night you told me you knew of no merit that could have brought you to me, but I think that, between us, we must endeavour to discover one. Perhaps, if you will repeat your story to me, I may be of use in finding it.” So on that Rosalie recounted the story of her early life, simply and truthfully, up to that last visit to the temple. Nor did she omit her meeting with Mr. Barringcourt there, and the short conversation she had held with him. But on mentioning the last visit, after her aunt’s death, she came to a sudden stop, and seemed undecided and unknowing how to proceed. “You say you went once more inside the sacred curtain. But why?” “I felt I had given up so much that the Serpent must recognise how much I really loved him. Besides, I felt I wanted to get some real strength to go on living after every hope and aspiration had died away.” “What was it made you wish so badly for a tongue?” “I don’t know. I don’t think it was me that wished; I think it was something else.” And then she flushed, for that was the style of speech Mr. Barringcourt would have ridiculed. And she herself recognised that truth at times, to the ignorant or wilfully blind, may appear silly and foolish. But this new acquaintance made no remark immediately, only his keen eyes travelled across her face, as if reading something there. “And that something?” he asked at length. “I don’t know, I’m sure. But it never gave me any peace, and it wasn’t myself, I am sure. Sometimes I used to reason that I couldn’t possibly receive the gift of speech, and yet the inner voice repeated, ‘Go on, go on!’ so that, apart from my own great wish, I was obliged to do as I was told.” “And you received the gift at last?” “Yes.” “On that last visit to the Serpent?” “No, I—I—I—for that I went to Mr. Barringcourt.” “The Serpent did not heal you, then?” “Oh, sir, could it?” Rosalie’s voice was almost a remonstrance. “Is not the Serpent the God of Lucifram?” “Yes, and that is what has troubled me so heavily ever since; far more than imprisonment and harshness.” “What has troubled you?” “Perhaps if I tell you, you will think me fanciful.” He smiled. “Fancies are all put to the test here,” he answered, and a certain sternness rang in the kindness of his tone that reassured Rosalie, somehow or other, when she thought it would have frightened her.