"You see where I am," said Pendlam. "I am compelled to go to other women for the magnetisms I need; she must receive what she requires from other men." "That is interesting," I replied. "What is the peculiar process of imparting these magnetisms?" "Sometimes by conversation,--sometimes by the contact of hands,--perhaps by a kiss; no rule is laid down; the process must depend upon the kind of magnetism to be imparted." "Very naturally. But what have I to do with all this?" "I will tell you. I was not Susan's first choice; but you were. That fact is very significant; it shows an affinity. And what I desire is, that--" "My dear John Henry," I interrupted, "allow me to say that you are quite mistaken. If I know any thing of affinities, there is none between Susan and myself; no more, I judge, than there is between you and the gentleman I met going out, as I was coming in. "Oh,--Clodman! You saw him?" cried Pendlam. "Yes, and remember distinctly seeing him at least twice before; once as the Practical Organizer of the Initial Association of Free Disciples, and once as the self-appointed castigator of unfortunate temperance missionaries." "You are pleased to be sarcastic," said Pendlam, mildly. "He is a very useful man to us. I welcome his visits to my house; for I consider his magnetism highly beneficial to Susan." "Then, by all the gods at once, you wrong me!" I said. "If that man's magnetism is what she needs, to suppose that mine is, also, is an insult. I lose patience with you, O most free Disciple!" "I see," replied Pendlam, with a smile, "you have not yet reached the plane of perfect freedom. I cannot argue with you; but when you have had certain necessary experiences, and arrived at my stand-point, you will see as I do." He conducted me to the door, rather coolly. I stopped a moment to speak to Susan. "For the love of Heaven," I said, "remember what I told you. You don't know how much depends upon you!" Susan stared. I left her staring. About this time Miss Kellerton returned, and played a brilliant engagement. I accompanied Horatio one evening to witness her fourth appearance in a new play, which had taken the theatrical portion of the city by storm. The play-house was packed from top to bottom. We had our seats in the orchestra, where we enjoyed a view of both actors and audience, and a cool breeze from behind the scenes. For criticisms of the performance, I must refer the reader to the newspapers of the period. Horatio cheered like a madman. He was quite beside himself with enthusiasm, especially at the close of the third act. He was clapping furiously, and looking about upon the audience to see who else was cheering, when he suddenly stopped, his hands asunder, his countenance transfixed with an alarming expression. I thought he had clapped himself into a fit. "Horatio!" I cried,--"Horatio! what's the matter?" "Look! look!" "Where?"