It was as though a spring had been touched, releasing his intelligence, which had always been kept apart from his work. For the first time he felt, though never so little, detached from it, while at the same moment the awful inward pressure of his emotional crisis was relaxed. He was happier, and less wildly gay, and he began to realize that he had astonishingly good food in front of him, good wine in plenty, delicious fruits to come, and fragrant coffee brewing there on the sideboard among bright-hued liqueur bottles. . . . There was no need to listen to Logan. There was pleasure enough in eating and drinking and watching Oliver, and thinking how good it would be to dance with her, and perhaps with others--little women whom he would hold in his arms and feel them yield to every movement that he made. . . . He was left alone with Oliver after dinner, while Logan and Tysoe retired to the study. "You've made him very happy," he said rather unsteadily. "Oh, yes!" said she. "It was like a Fate, wasn't it? I always had a feeling that I wasn't like other girls. I always thought something out of the way would happen to me, though I never thought of anything like this." "You mustn't tell me about him," said Mendel. "I must tell someone or I shall die. He's so extraordinary. He says it's something deeper than love, and I think it must be." "You must not talk about it," he said. "It makes all the stuff he talks about seem silly. I don't understand it, do you?" She lay back in her chair and swung her foot, with her eyes fixed on the door waiting for Logan to return. Mendel's dislike of her sprang up in him again, and he was a little afraid of her: of her big, fleshy body, so full now of little trickling streams of pleasure; of her eyes, watching, watching, with the strange, glassy steadiness of the eyes of a bird of prey. . . . He decided that he would not dance with her. He would dance with the others--the little, harmless, pretty fools. To reassure himself he told himself that Logan was happy, and strong enough to resist the growing will in this woman. VIII THE MERLIN'S CAVE LOGAN had cajoled twenty pounds out of Mr. Tysoe, who stood on his doorstep, dangling his long hands, while his admired guests crept into a taxi-cab. He swung from side to side:-- "I have had a most delightful evening--most charming, most inspiring." Inside the cab Logan waved the cheque triumphantly and Oliver tried to snatch it from him. They had an excited scuffle, which ended in a kiss. "What's the matter with the man?" asked Mendel. "He's just a fool," replied Logan, "a padded fool. His only virtue is that he does really think me a wonderful fellow, and he is kind. But how I hate such kindness, the last virtue, the last refuge of the decrepit! It is a perfume, a herb with which they are embalmed." "I thought he was a very nice old gentleman," said Oliver. "He seemed to me," said Mendel, "the kind of man who thinks of nothing but women all day long."