“You will come home with me,” she urged. “I am alone, but what of that? Poor company will suffice one night. And to-morrow who knows? I may expect my husband home.” “Your husband?” I queried. She placed her hand on my arm and drew her lips close to my ear. Her eyes were laughing, and her voice. She whispered lightly, “I think you are mistaking this for heaven.” “That would be the greatest compliment,” I rejoined. Her manner altered to one of sarcasm and scorn. “If you esteem it so, why do you linger here?” “That is an answer quite beyond me,” I made answer. “I think I linger here because I must.” “Yes—as a prisoner,” she said slowly. “A much-prized prisoner, almost like a guest.” We had reached the broad flight of steps that led toward the entrance. Here she stood still and took my left hand in her right, and with her other placed upon my finger a narrow circlet of blood-red stones. I looked at it with vain regret; to me there was no beauty in these gems. I remembered my own fair jewels and remorse more keen that I had felt before cut to my heart. “Stranger, how little courtesy you show! Silent and thankless even for a gift.” “I remember another ring more beautiful than this,” I answered. Her eyes lit up with that intensity which in its lesser forms mortals call greed. “Be content with what you get,” she remarked. “Those stones are priceless—millions could scarcely buy them; your stones are the dross of that little planet, Earth—bought, perhaps, with trumpery silver.” I was then silent, and together we went up the steps. The entrance was barred with gates of gold. They were like the iron ones that protect churches. Inside these gates was a high arched door. It was like the door of some cathedral—covered with knobs. But they were not of rusted iron; they glowed like carbuncles in a carved setting, which was itself in substance like black oak. At her touch the heavy gates drew back, the gloomy door flew open. Beyond was an arched space like the central aisle of some large temple. And as we stood upon the threshold I looked in upon the dim, dark grandeur. Blood-red lighted censers swung from the golden fluted roof. They lit up the fluted pillars that branched out into the most delicate arches eye could wish. Here was the sound of organ music beautiful to hear, yet to my ears it came like a paining memory of long ago. “Do you not like our music?” she asked. “It is short of but one thing,” I answered as we went in, “and that is joyousness.” The door closed behind us and the music ceased. Presently it began again. I listened enraptured and entranced. “What do you think of that?” she queried. “That is not joyous, it is madness—an elation which does not last.” “You are very bad to please. Or rather, let me use my old argument, I will say that you are dull.”