. . . the door opened and more than mortal Stood, with a face where to my mind centred All beauties I ever saw or shall see, The Duchess--I stopped as if struck by palsy. She was so different, happy and beautiful I felt at once that all was best, And that I had nothing to do, for the rest But wait her commands, obey and be dutiful. Not that, in fact, there was any commanding, --I saw the glory of her eye And the brow's height and the breast's expanding, And I was hers to live or to die. "Hurrah!" Harkness cried. "I beg your pardon?" the old man said, looking up. Harkness blushed. "I was reading something rather fine," he said, smiling. "You'd better look out for what you're reading, to whom you're speaking, where you're walking, what you're eating, everything, when you're in Treliss," he remarked. "Why? Is it so dangerous a place?" asked Harkness. "It doesn't like tourists. I've seen it do funny things to tourists in my time." "I think you're hard on tourists," Harkness said. "They don't mean any harm. They admire places the best way they can." "Yes, and how long do they stay?" the old man replied. "Do you think you can know a place in a week or a month? Do you think a real place likes the dirt and the noise and the silly talk they bring with them?" "What do you mean by a real place?" Harkness asked. "Places have souls just like people. Some have more soul and some have less. And some have none at all. Sometimes a place will creep away altogether, it is so disgusted with the things people are trying to do to it, and will leave a dummy instead, and only a few know the difference. Why, up in the Welsh hills there are several places that have gone up there in sheer disgust the way they've been treated, and left substitutes behind them. Parts of London, for instance. Do you think that's the real Chelsea you see in London? Not a bit of it. The real Chelsea is living--well, I mustn't tell you where it is living--but you'll never find it. However, Americans are the last to understand these things. I am wasting my breath talking." The train had drawn now into Drymouth. The old man was silent, looking out at the hurrying crowds on the platform. He was certainly a pessimist and a hater of his kind. He was looking out at the innocent people with a lowering brow as though he would slaughter the lot of them had he the power. "Old Testament Moses" Harkness named him. After a while the train slowly moved on. They passed above the mean streets, the boardings with the cheap theatres, the lines with the clothes hanging in the wind, the grimy windows. But even these things the lovely sky, shining, transmuted. They came to the river. It lay on either side of the track, a broad sheet of lovely water spreading, on the left, to the open sea. The warships clustered in dark ebony shadows against the gold; the hills rose softly, bending in kindly peace and happy watchfulness.