Saxe. told me many curious things about the Centaurians and their wonderful discoveries. We talked till daybreak. He made me promise to visit him daily and be useful, but it was several months before Saxe. and I met again. I returned to the palace and wandered in the gardens, waiting impatiently for the summons from Alpha Centauri. But I was disappointed; though I sent many messages, she refused to see me that day and, womanlike, gave no reasons. I idled the glorious morning away in the gardens, then towards noon started for the city in quest of Saxe.’s intelligent tailor. The man seemed to regard my order as an honor, and to my request promised to give it his personal attention and I would have the garments as early as I desired. He informed me the costume was ancient, but occasionally seen on the stage, and there was a general impression the mountaineers of the Vespa Belt still wore it. He took my measure and again promised to accommodate me at the earliest possible moment. I decided the next time Alpha and I met she would behold a gentleman of the period of my world. Strolling leisurely about the city, pondering upon the advisability of visiting Saxe. again, I suddenly sighted a tall, majestic building, whose portals stood wide with a gigantic statue of the angel Genius, smiling a welcome. It was the Salon, and remembering the artistic fisherman and fair Abella, I entered the gallery with much curiosity. I remained till sun-down. The fisherman’s work was above and beyond anything in the gallery, not for merit, but originality. He aimed at the mysterious, the startling, and charmed the imagination. An artist who daringly flings upon the world a picture of dull sky and half-obscured moon is a master. Originality is the child of imagination; Fame, the blossom. There were many clever artists in this strange land, possibly more clever than the extraordinary fisherman, but their work lacked individuality and paled into insignificance before the wild combination of vivid, gaudy shades blended by the greatest artist in the world. But as I viewed the portrait of the beauteous Abella, my admiration for her husband’s art dwindled considerably. In the pink-and-white, simpering portrait the artist betrayed his lack of skill; he failed utterly to produce Abella’s delicate archness and made her loveliness a type to compare with his strange ideal of pervertedness. A long panel canvas revealed the dark-browed, intense production posed impossibly statuesque; deep, gloomy, intelligent eyes, the whole vivid with that which was lacking in the painted prettiness of Abella. It was a masterstroke placing the two side by side, the one fair, smiling, shallow, the other dark, wintry, magnetic. The failure was obscured; the ideal charmed the eye and attention.