“And Virginius—had you known him?” “Yes, but I never understood him. He had a way of looking which was very puzzling, almost annoying. Moreover, he persisted in acting as if I had lived for ever, a phase of existence I do not remember at all.” “And Vestasian?” “I never saw him till I went to hell.” “Never saw him?” “Never.” “But you are very like him.” “I can account for that. I took to staring at him on a bridge at midnight; the likeness must have grown from that.” “You are not speaking seriously.” “Indeed I am.” “Tell me of your father and mother.” But I shook my head. “Indeed, I would rather not. I am not at all fond of speaking of myself, though by a strange irony it never may appear so.” “What may not appear so?” The words caused us to look towards the door, and there, just within it, stood Vestasian—the subject of Philemon’s doubts and fears. We were neither of us surprised. Vestasian never did surprise people because he surprised them so completely. And I for one was pleased to see him because he had always interested me, and because he was the only one for whom I had entertained any fear. As I went to greet him I noticed again the sweetness of his face and the hardness; one seemed to cover the other like a mask. His was a face which some, to pride themselves on far-seeing, would say they could not trust, but then I don’t think he ever had any ambition to be trusted. “You are pleased to see me, Genius,” he said, coming forward. “We did not take an affectionate leave of one another—it was rather too unexpected and too hasty. Who would have thought the last time I saw you you were bound that night for heaven?” “No, indeed. I had expected perfect annihilation or a second phase of hell.” He looked at me. “You are looking much stronger than when I saw you last,” he observed. “I find the society of heaven more congenial.” Without answering he went to a sofa, the only thing of luxury in the room, and threw himself down among the cushions and clasped his hands above his head. All this time Philemon had been watching him from the window. He had not risen from his seat there, but apparently had not objected to the interruption. Vestasian lying there looked the very picture of luxurious ease. Beautiful he was without a doubt, the kind of beauty that grows on one the more one sees it. “Which of us have you come to see?” asked Philemon at length, seeing the conversation had suddenly come to a standstill. “Both of you. You have no objection, Philemon?” “None. Why have you come?” “I have come for no particular reason. Time was dragging on my hands, which is a new experience for me, or perhaps my wife is growing ill and longs for the edelweiss of heaven.” “I never saw her after all,” I said. “No. Philemon, why do you look at me with such a disagreeable minuteness?” “I am trying to solve what relationship Genius bears to you.” “You had best put it under a microscope.” “Is it so small then?”