He shrugged his shoulders. “Each excuses his own actions,” he remarked, and by this we were back again in the theatre. There was a great deal of noise going on, and someone called as we entered, in an exquisitely clear and modulated voice,— “Statesman number three from the left-hand corridor wanted.” A silence followed this, and at last from the left wing of the stage a gentleman appeared. So far as I knew I had never seen him before, and Plucritus, who sat beside me, explained that he had lived a hundred years ago, when the great European War was in progress. The one who had called for him sat in the centre of the theatre, and round him were grouped many spirits, Vestné being at his right hand. “That is my brother-in-law,” said Plucritus, “and we really get on excellently well. Some day I will introduce you to him, and there is no doubt you will form a great admiration for each other.” “We will leave the future to speak for itself,” I observed drily. “My brother-in-law is very talented,” continued he; “but he is of such a modest nature that he has never yet allowed himself to be called by the name of Genius.” “Indeed!” I laughed. “What is his particular gift?” “He has none in particular. They all belong to him.” I laughed again. We were interrupted by his calling to us. “Plucritus,” he exclaimed, “you might at least have the kindness to keep that conversation at a lower pitch.” “I was describing your character to a friend.” “A friend?” he queried, looking round; and then rather unexpectedly he left his seat and came to us. There were two things that impressed me about him—the extreme sweetness and yet hardness of his face. In some ways he appeared no older than a youth not yet turned twenty, in others he resembled a man hardened beyond even the degree to which men can attain. “You are Genius?” he remarked lightly, and I noticed that his voice corresponded to his face. “Vestné says you are dull over there for lack of company; you should visit me, I am never dull.” “This is Vestasian,” said Plucritus, “who, to quote my favourite earthly poet, Dryden, is— ‘A man so various that he seems to be, Not one but all mankind’s epitome.’” “Look at that man over there,” interposed Vestasian, gazing towards the stage. “He comes in aptly for the second part of the quotation:— ‘Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong, All things by starts and nothing long.’” “Genius himself can fill up the third part of the text,” put in Plucritus:— “‘For in the course of one revolving moon He’s statesman, chemist, fiddler and buffoon.’” “Dryden is honoured,” said Vestasian and that sweet, even voice of his. “But then he deserves it. But, Genius,” he continued, “you must come with me—the greatest stranger and the honoured guest.” “What am I to do?” queried Plucritus. “Find someone else,” returned the other. For a second they looked at one another, and Plucritus turned to me.