I watched a chance to find Radnor at leisure, to waylay him, to entice him to my veranda. When the atmosphere of our talk seemed auspicious, I said: “See here, Radnor! I know you said you meant to elude any queries I might put to you, but there is one question you’ll have to answer, somehow. Why are all these people here?” “That is easy,” Radnor laughed. “I have no objection to answering that question. They are here because Pembroke wants them here.” “I didn’t phrase my question well,” I said, “but you know what I mean. No one I have met really likes being here. Why do they stay?” “That’s easy, too,” Radnor smiled. “Almost anyone will stay almost anywhere if lodged comfortably and paid enough. Pembroke provides his hirelings with an overplus of luxuries and is more than liberal in payment.” “That does not explain what intrigues me,” I pursued. “I haven’t yet hit on the right words to express my idea. But you really understand me, I think, though you pretend you don’t. All the inhabitants of these villas are not merely uneasy, they are consciously homesick, acutely homesick, homesick to a degree which no luxurious surroundings, no prospective savings could alleviate. They are pining for home. What keeps them here?” “Put it down,” said Radnor, weightily, “to the unescapable charm of the island. That keeps them here.” “Did you say witchery or enchantment?” I queried, meaningly. Radnor was emphatic. “I said charm!” he uttered. “Let it go at that.” “I am not in the least inclined,” I retorted, “to let it go at that. I take it that this is no joke, certainly not anything to be dismissed by a clever play on words. I insist on knowing what makes all these people stay here. They all declare, at every opportunity, that they are dying of ennui, that the climate is uncongenial, that they long for temperate skies, for northern vegetation, for frosty nights. What keeps them here?” “I tell you,” said Radnor, “that, like me, most human beings will do anything, anything lawful and reasonable, if paid high enough.” “The rest aren’t like you,” I asserted. “You and Mrs. Radnor impress me as free agents, doing, for a consideration, what you have been asked to do, and what you both, after weighing the pros and cons, have agreed to do. All the others, Europeans, Americans and Asiatics, except Mother Bevan, appear like beings hypnotized and moving in a trance, mere living automatons, without any will of their own, actuated solely by Pembroke’s will; as much so as if they were mechanical dolls. They impress me as being mesmerized or bewitched. I seriously vow that I believe they have been subjected to some supernatural or magical influence. They are as totally dominated by Pembroke as if they were the ends of his fingers.” Radnor looked startled. “It will do no good,” I cried, “to contradict me or to deny it.” “I believe you,” Radnor said, as if thinking out loud. He went on: