For there can be no eagerness in this land. It would be wholly out of place. Neither are we acutely jealous of Ferratoni. Acuteness would be out of place also. And so we drowse in the fragrance of the lilies, and soft-eyed, soft-voiced people come and sing to us, while the barge waits and becomes a picture on the tide. And then there falls silence, and it is as if the world and the palace slept, and so would sleep until the wakening kiss. XXXI. THE POLE AT LAST. November ( ). At the top of the Temple of the Sun. I do not know the precise date, or the hour. Our watches have long since stopped, and there has been neither the desire nor the need to wind them. In a land where the sun slips round the sky, and for half a year no night cometh, the proper measure of time is of little matter. Neither have I continued the record of these notes, for I thought each day to visit this spot, and so waited. In the light of the Lily Princess we have lingered and drowsed. From the peace of her pleasant palace we have not cared to stray. And she has smiled kindly upon us all, though from the first it has been evident that her joy lies in Ferratoni, and that, in the princess, he too has found at last the ideal—the perfect spirit vibration that completes the chord of souls. We have become glad of this and rejoice in his happiness. That is, we have rejoiced as much as anybody ever rejoices in this halcyon land. We have been peacefully and limpidly content, and their serene bliss has been our compensation. Yet there have been other rewards. We have mingled with the fair people of the court and found something of the bliss of their untroubled lives. Also, we have learned somewhat of their converse—that is, we have learned to imagine that we know what they are thinking and saying, while they have learned, or imagine they have learned, about us, too; and in this land to imagine that you have learned these things is much the same as if you had really done so, for in a place where life is reduced to a few simple principles, and there is neither the reason nor the wish to plan, or discuss, or quarrel about anything, what you say and think, or what they say and think in reply, cannot be wide of the mark in any case. As with time, exactness, or the lack of it, does not matter. Indeed, nothing matters much in this balmy vale. Lingering on a lilied bank in the sun—with—with any one of these gentle people, life becomes a soothing impression which minuteness and detail would only mar.