Ah, you scientists, you theologians, cease seeking for what is hidden from us. Give up what is beyond us. Turn instead and tell us what of the Geology of Passion? What of the Dogmas of the female’s right to the male? Come, Sandy, bring my tin spade and empty the little bucket upon the beach. I am going to try a new cement. X Once again I am in the company of my royal host, His Excelsior. The Great Axilla is showing me another section of his collection of men. We are in a vast inclosure which resembles a city park. Crossing it are shaded walks with benches at intervals, and at the intersection of these various paths, that is at the centre of the park, is a fountain. Upon the benches are seated men of different ages, some with chins almost beardless, others in the evening of life, with the harsh furrows of experience upon their features, and many who are worn into greyness. “Look at these men,” said His Excelsior, “examine them with care and tell me what you see.” I gazed about me with intentness, but remained silent. “Can not you tell me what you see, slow one?” demanded the Excelsior, impatiently taking me by the elbow and turning me about face, “look at this specimen here--one with the down of youth still upon him.” “How hollow-eyed he looks!” I whispered. “Aye, and his belly pinched.” “He looks up through the leafless branches as though he were dreaming and yet awake;” I added. “Aye,” quoth the Great Axilla, “and his dreams never have and never shall come true.” “What is he?” I asked. “He is a misfit;” was the reply. Then we strolled slowly on until we reached the centre where the fountain was flowing drearily. As we came to a stop, the Excelsior squeezed my arm gently to attract my attention to a man of middle age who sat upon a bench immediately beside us. I turned to study him for a passing moment. His trousers were frayed at the bottom and soiled. His beard was muddy with a growth of several days. He was leaning on the arm at the end of the bench, holding in his fingers a twig with which he was drawing strange devices upon the gravel walk, while the shadows and the light of the sun played around him. There could be no mistake in his actions. He was trying to get time behind him, and above all to occupy his mind. He was striving to distract his thoughts from himself, a ceaseless endeavor. No, there could be no doubt about the meaning of that wayward, woe-begone look. “Tell me, what is he?” I asked in a low voice. “He is one of the unfits;” rejoined my host, meditatively. I had to ponder a little, too. By this time we were near enough to the fountain to hear the water falling, falling, with its never-ending splash; and from this point we could look up and down the different avenues that stretched away from us like the spokes of a gigantic wheel, of which we were the hub. “And who are those up that avenue? And these here, who are they?”