She moved slightly. My question was unexpected. Some of these tender plants of human growth are so delicately constituted that they wince physically if you prod their souls with a verbal arrow. “I can scarce distinguish between states,” she said, “nor have I thought or read deeply enough to claim any clear idea as to what constitutes spirituality. I suppose it sounds strange to hear a girl not yet nineteen talking of such matters at all. But in Berlin one is taught to think earlier than in England, and a musical training is prone to develop fanciful moods.” She was fencing with me. I determined to risk another of those insidious arrow-flights. “May I take it that your present introspective condition of mind arises from your experiences on board the _Merlin_?” I said. “Yes.” Her lips set with a snap. It was quite clear that however little Karl’s supernormal powers affected him they had exerted a truly remarkable influence on Maggie Hutchinson, an influence, too, so novel and mysterious that she seemed almost to fear its analysis. So I endeavored to help her. “The man would be a fool who denied the enduring effect on the mind of a moment’s inspiration,” I said. “He might as well argue that the inconceivably rapid passage of an electric current through the body could not contort it permanently or even shrivel it into practical annihilation.” “Ah!” she cried impulsively, “that is how it seems to me. Our poor frail human form cannot choose but obey the soul. At least it must be so if we would be governed by noble instincts and strive ever to reach a higher individual ideal. When the soul yields to the body there you have the downfall, the yielding of the man to the ape.” She leaned forward, with her right elbow on her knee and her well-modeled chin supported by the thin, long, nervous fingers which bespoke the artistic faculty. Spatulate-fingered folk should keep away from strings and easels. As it pleased her to attach an ethical significance to my words I did not gainsay her. Indeed, something told me to leave her to her thoughts for a little while, and, as she appeared to be listening intently to the music, I sank back into my chair and gave her the choice of continuing the conversation or not, as she saw fit. The band, a small but most excellent orchestra, had just rendered a soft and harmonious prelude. I did not recognize the air until a violoncello, exquisitely played, struck into the swelling grandeur of Vulcan’s song from _Philemon et Baucis_. Perhaps the girl knew the words as well as the music. I did not. Looking them up afterwards, in Santley’s translation, I found them curiously à propos of the strange, all-surmounting force which was in our minds at the moment. Where loud the brazen hammers sound, With lurid light the furnace glowing, Down in my kingdom underground, Aside vain ceremony throwing, I’m sovereign of all around.