(Not quite sure whether he meant the character in the book, or the Prophet’s own ejection from the heirship of Dossola), Lalette said hesitantly; “Why, sir, I—I suppose it would be because he tried so arrogantly to increase it.” “Admirable, admirable. Whereas if he had given of it freely to the old aunt, it had been returned to him in high measure. From which we learn, demoiselle?” (The jargon was distasteful, but) “That we must lovingly give all we have,” said Lalette, remembering. The protostylarion bounced up and down behind his desk as he went on, prompting her replies in his eagerness, so that it hardly mattered how little she had read of the famous First Book. A porter came blundering into the midst of the colloquy with her trunk on a hook over his shoulder. This placed a period to the examination, for now the protostylarion fussed with his hands, said “Ah, ah,” two or three times more, then to the guards; “You are released.” As the pair filed out, he drew from his desk a large ledger and a sheet of blue-colored paper, pointed his quill and said; “You—swear—that—whatever—of—the—Art—you—have—practiced—in —the—past—you—will—abandon—with—all—worldly—vanities —on—reception—into—the—high—order—of—the—Myonessae,” all in one breath. Then, more judicially: “Your name is—” “Lalette—” (should she say “Issensteg?”) “Ah, you made an evasion! The God of love demands all truth from those who come to him.” She felt a cheek-spot heat at this nagging. “Asterhax. I have given you nothing but truth. If you doubt it I will return to the ship that brought me.” “Oh no, oh no, my dear demoiselle, you must not mistake. All pasts are buried in the world of love.” “Well, I have done that.” “And they will welcome you, I am sure, my dear demoiselle. Oh, the perfect peace.” His pen went scratch, scratch, skipping from ledger to paper, the head cocked on one side as he surveyed the result from one angle, then another, as an artist might look at a drawing, and his smile approved. A fly buzzed in the room. “So. Demoiselle Lalette, you are now registered of the honorable estate of the Myonessae in the service of the God of love.” He trotted around the desk to hand her the paper, with a red seal on it. “Rest here, rest here, I will seek a porter to lead you to the couvertine.” (What would he say if he knew I am a murderess? she thought, and followed this with a quickly-suppressed flash of anger at Tegval for having made her one.) The protostylarion came back with a porter who grinned at her fine new dress and picked up the trunk. “Farewell, farewell,” said the little man, waving from where he sat. “You will hardly need a carriage, it is not far.” He was writing again as Lalette followed the porter through the door.