“It seems to me,” she gives reply, “that you are always finding excuses for dubious revolutionaries, whose spirits and bodies are rag bags.” About nine in the evening, there are star-chimes from all the towers. The bells are singing the song of Portia, the aviator:—“Look up at the far-off suns, Oh hearts of eternal desire.” Avanel speaks to me in a swearing tone of voice: “I think I cut fewer people than you do. I should not be elected the head of the Amazons if I were a fool about exclusiveness. As a matter of fact I cut those who go to the parties of Mara, the daughter of the Man from Singapore. It is plain she gets those people under her roof to poison them against the world government or at least muffle their suspicions of her father’s doings and the doings of his like. You are the only person who thinks I cut loyal patriotic people.” I am wondering why I like this Avanel. I conclude it is because of her overwhelming vanity and unbreakable pride. She has the soul of a thousand peacocks and there is a potential lioness in her beside. She clasps her hands and looks silently over the city, her eyes wide and leaping with delight over the glory of the illumination. I say to Avanel: “My Fathers have been long in the grave, and my own dust has long been buried in other dust. I walk with you, only because my heart loved you, one hundred years ago.” But she does not understand me in the least, when I talk in this fashion. March 4:—It is such an established custom among the young people of 2018 to watch the sunset from the great uninterrupted glass spaces of the upper halls of these sunset towers that there may be found the most famous cafeterias of the town. We dine at the top of one of them. There with gay singing the young democracy, and the young cocks of the walk as well, linger and wait till long past the afterglow. This evening the haughty Avanel consents to take dinner with me, that she may reprove me once more, seeing that, in general, my name is mud, however I may try to improve. The catalogue of her hoity-toity friends rolls on forever and I can only protest by saying that while these are undeniably good citizens, they are all sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles of those who are invited to Mara’s parties, and thus quite near to treason. But now the town choir sings the civic hymn from a tower near by:—“Springfield Awake, Springfield Aflame” and all the young people about join in the chorus, and as Avanel sings devoutly she cannot help but be the other self whose existence she tries to deny.