She rose and moved slowly toward the dim interior of this leafy retreat and sank upon a mossy bank near the refreshing coolness of perfumed waters. I flung myself at her feet. A huge instrument resembling a harp was wheeled towards her. It had two sets of golden wires in a casement of crystal. Her white hands strayed idly over the wires—the vision in the burning globe was before me—then under her powerful touch a volume of music rang—sweet, wild melody, and she who declared Love a dead science portrayed upon her instrument all the emotions of the human heart. Deep tones of passion thrilled and trembled, the strident howl of rage, hatred; the laugh of envy, the wail of anguish, all rang out clearly beneath her inspired touch. I gazed at her in doubt and amusement. Perceiving my glance she murmured: “Knowledge’s tuition is: All emotions have their note of melody, rhythm.” “You worship Knowledge,” I told her; “you can adore man.” “I know nothing of your country,” she replied: “yet in your far zone, centuries ago, there were customs that never could be re-established—you have progressed above them. This strange sentiment you uphold is not of the intellect, the children of Centauri are followers of the divine light blessed with calmness, peace.” “Love still rules Centauri; your own words prove it!” I exclaimed stubbornly. “Knowledge is bait. You people are greatly advanced, but in love the whole world is equal. Pride, ambition, seeks Wisdom. We upon our side also bend the knee to Elevation. The passion for Fame, Glory is supreme. Love is the title for a thousand emotions—Greed, Wealth, Position—and sacrificial crimes are committed hourly to obtain them. Then there is the much-vaunted maternal love, the most unreliable of all instincts. I have known the life of a daughter made miserable, the sweet freshness of youth blighted in cynical thoughts roused by a pretty, passé, selfish, knife-tongued mother. Maternal affection! bah! it ceases the moment individuality is attained, thrusting aside yokish, slavish control. Show me the human being who appreciates the monstrous favor of birth. Is the Innocent responsible for creative desire? Yet not till dissolution does Result escape the harpy Reminder. There is the soul-inspiring passion for the One Woman—a grand affair of a few days, chiefly experienced in this metallic period by very young girls, very old men and, occasionally for relaxation, a staid family man indulges——!!! I could talk for months upon this theme; it could never be exhausted; but you, Centauri, I worship! love as no man ever loved! I will be patient, wait years, if in the end I can teach you to truthfully say: ‘Virgillius, I love you.’” She gazed at me wonderingly. “To experience this marvelous sensation, to master the art of love I would study years; for all things I must know. Strange,” she continued, “this absorbing science should have become obsolete.”