To return to the Prince Plucritus. He stood by that same window that commands the whole compass of Lucifram--no disfiguring telescope--nothing but beauty round about. And now that the mists of night have settled, and the web is floating like a veil in the light of the moon, steal up an inch or two with me and look. Will you, or won’t you, Monsieur Scientist? Come along with Art, because at South Kensington they’ve linked you both together, like a household word. Hush! The forest is still! Never shudder at its depths! Hush! Hush! Break no twig, but come inside the magic circle, whoever will. See! the ring wheels round like that at Earl’s Court, but with no sound of motion, nor lumbersome effect. Mists and miles are between you and that solitary figure, so there is no sacrilege in that you stare. Mists and miles and the moon! Well, and what is the great Prince like? “No different from a man,” you say. No, no different--and you know why, because a man can’t conceive anything with an intellect more beautiful than himself. It is one of his limitations--and there is wisdom and beauty in it; and Nature hasn’t had a finger in it--only God. So draw a little closer--keep your feet well on the rim, and look through the mists and miles and moonbeams. You see indistinctly? Here is my hand--_now_ is the vision clearer? Look on that perfect head and graceful figure. You perceive he stands full-length by the full-length window, looking on Lucifram with the expression that Lucifram itself has taught him--Serfdom containing possibilities. For those eyes--do you feel their fascination?--full of intellect, full of soul, full of power, and, far away back under the coldness that looks like softness to the inexperienced eye, full of cruelty, and deep-laid plots and plans--by which the master-game is played. Will you take more, or is thus much of the vision quite enough? A little more? Quick! Did you catch that little smile, the delicate contemptuous curve of that fine nostril--the straight commanding line of a strong nose? But is it _kind_? Still for the mouth. One forgives undoubtedly the man who has a sense of humour--the corners of whose mouth can twist a little humorously, just now and then. Look at this Prince of immortality. Do you not see the thin lips, formed like a fine-strung bow on arrow, twisted into a most interested smile? One shapely corner turning up--one, alas! turning down--a little awry, like the mouths of great men often are who copy him--unconsciously, of course. For the pride of that downward droop loves not imitation, though the upward corner winks (if the mouth can wink) at the humour of it. There then, the Prince. And you turn away shivering, and blame the cold moon mists and the night-wafted winds. Blame nothing but that face. Look at it long enough, and you will harden into ice, frozen blood and stony flesh--a death-like monument.