“Well,” observed Plucritus, slowly, “I do not know that you will ever get his name on good authority, as you call it. He has no name, for the planet from which he comes does not acknowledge him. But as here, at least, we are courteous we will give him the name that best suits his vanity; we will call him Genius. Vestné, this is Genius—Genius, here is my wife.” “I expect,” she said, with that half-laughing sigh of hers, “you have cast a libel on us both.” “Not so,” he rejoined. “I describe you as my wife to suit his morals. He has come from Earth, you know the place I mean, where they are all moral on the outside, but underneath they suit their own convenience.” As he spoke he stood behind her and eyed me with the hard, unflinching stare which was so distasteful. I remember a rather awkward pause followed on this remark till Vestné led the way to the table and sat down. She had attired herself in the most lovely raiment eye could wish, and the soft, silken coils about her head were of the beauty of simplicity. The meal, though most magnificently served, and delicate in flavour throughout, was a failure. Plucritus, who in hell appeared much different from what he was on earth, sat like some great prince, moody and speechless. He wore the usual civic robe above his tunic, but under this there shone on his arms and neck a fine coat of linked armour, worked in gold, though hard as steel. He wore neither crown nor coronet upon his head, and he needed neither. A crown to him was simply a bauble, unless worn out of courtesy and compliment to those who were his equals. I understood well the cause of his ill-humour, and even sympathised with it. But no remark was passed till the fruit had been brought, and Vestné, who during the meal had tasked me with many questions about the people on Earth, laughingly left us. When we were alone Plucritus continued for some time silent, absorbed for the most part in cracking and eating nuts. For you will understand that nuts of certain kinds are a very favourite dessert with Spirits—so much is often contained within a nutshell. I made no attempt to join him, either in eating or drinking. A glass of untouched wine stood beside me—what appetite I had, had been long since satisfied. At last he broke the silence. “Genius,” he said in his clear, incisive voice, “would you be kind enough to tell me something? I wish to know if living among boors has transformed you into a boor?” “In all probability,” I answered, “or the question would be unnecessary.” “I see,” he commented. And then for a little while silence fell again. Presently he began once more,— “Am I to blame you for this negligent, uncourteous attire, or that cursed slave I sent with you?” “I am to blame entirely. He did his best—but failed.” “I see. Then I am inclined to blame him. Failure is a crime, a lamentable weakness. He may suffer a little more till he has found out some means of making you do—right.”