A glow came into her patient eyes as she nodded and fixed them on Stellamaris; and then a tear started. “Does n't everybody love him?” She rose abruptly. “Would you like me to show you his room, Miss Stella--the room he works in?” Stella rose, too. “He might not like it,” she said. This was a point of view incomprehensible to Unity. Even the all-great master must bow to the sanctification brought into the house by Stella's feet. She said softly: “He worships the ground you tread on. Don't you know that?” Stella flushed, and evaded the question. “You think that if I'm afraid to go into his room, I don't care for him? It is n't that. I--I love him more than anything else in the world. I--” she stopped short, and the flush deepened, for she realized what she was saying. “It is something I can't quite explain to you,” she continued, after a pause. “In fact, I ought n't to stay any longer.” Despite unregenerate Fatima temptation, despite a girl's romantic desire to see the table at which the dear one writes his immortal prose, she could pry no further into her Great Belovedest's home. She had pried too much already for her peace of mind. She put out her hand. Unity took it, and, holding it, looked up into her face. She was squat and undersized; Stella was slim and tall. “I thought I should never see you again,” she said, in a low voice. “I hope now we shall see each other often,” replied Stella, and drawn toward the girl by the magnetism of her love, she kissed her on both cheeks. But she drove away in the magnificent limousine very heavy-hearted, out of tune with life. She seemed to be living in an atmosphere of lies, from which her candid soul passionately revolted. She met them at every turn. Once more the world became the Threatening Land full of hidden ugliness, only awaiting opportunity to be revealed. The glamour of the last day or two in London had gone. When John Risca, truly her belovedest, when Walter Herold, whom in her simplicity she had regarded all her life less as a man than as a kind of Adonaïs spirit, when all, all she loved had lied to her persistently for years, to whom and to what could she pin her faith? Who would guide her through this land of which she was so ignorant, this land so thickly set with cruel traps?