"Indeed, I am," Cayley protested. "I’m very anxious to hear your opinion about gold, too. I have something to suggest, myself. Oh!" He delved into his breast pocket. "Here are some notes on the history of the trade dollar, Mr. Payson. You know I was speaking of it. I’ve been looking up the subject at the mint and at the library for you; I think it might give you some ideas." Mr. Payson took the paper eagerly and pushed up his spectacles to examine it. "Thank you; thank you very much. I’ll be glad to look it over. It’s a pleasure to find any one nowadays who’s so interested in what is going to be a very vital question. You’ll find my cigars here, somewhere. Cly, you go and find the box, won’t you?" As Clytie disappeared in the direction of the dining-room, he added, "You must humor her, Blanchard, she’s a bit skittish. Don’t force her hand and I think you’ll bring her around." "Thanks for the tip, but I have my idea," was the reply. "It’s only a question of time when I shall be able to produce the psychological condition I want." Mr. Payson shook his head dubiously. "I don’t know. That isn’t the way we went about it when I was young. We didn’t bother much with psychology then. We had emotions to attend to." "Oh, love-making is just as much a science as anything else, and there is no reason why it shouldn’t progress. There are modern methods, you know; it’s only a form of hypnotism." He smiled blandly. When he and Clytie were alone—a situation she seemed to delay as much as possible—Cayley sat down opposite her with an ingratiating, disarming smile. He was neither eager nor impressive. He was sure of himself. It did not, as he had said, seem to matter a great deal about her emotions; he scarcely considered her otherwise than as a mind whose defenses he was to overthrow in an intellectual contest. He began with elaborate circumlocution. "Well, I’ve discovered something." Her delicate eyebrows rose. "It is a curious botanical fact that there are four thousand lamp-posts in the city of San Francisco." "Why botanical?" "That is just what I expected you to ask." "Then I’ll not ask it." She was already on the defense. "But you did!" "Well?" She appeared to resent his tone. "Now, see here!" He laid his right forefinger to his left palm. "Suppose a Martian were visiting the earth. He wouldn’t at first be able to distinguish the properties of things. So, seeing these four thousand lamp-posts, he might consider them as a part of the Terrene flora—queer trees." It was like a game of chess, and it was evident that she could not foresee his next move. The detour was too complicated. She seemed, by her attitude, to be on her guard, but allowed him, with a nod of assent, to proceed. "Now, suppose you have the Martian, or let us call it the uncorrelative point of view. Suppose you use brain-cells that have hitherto been quiescent or undeveloped." "I don’t exactly follow." Her attention wandered.