“Sir John,” said the Rorka, “I have heard much about your wonderful airship that carried you safely to our world. Would you be prepared to build another as like it as possible? I will place men, material and means at your disposal. You need want for nothing, and I should esteem it a personal favour if you would at least consider my proposal.” Sir John’s eyes shone. “O Rorka, you have put new life into me by your suggestion. I felt I was growing old—but my heart is still young. To be of use in your world will make my last years happy; to feel I am not wasting my time will strengthen my life. Masters and I were planning another Argenta on paper only to-day. He has been examining the metal you use, and he says it is even lighter and stronger than our aluminium. My whole time is at your disposal, and Masters’ as well.” “Speak for yourself, Sir John,” smiled the Rorka. “But unless I am much mistaken, Zyllia will have more to say about Waz-Masters’ affairs than you have dreamt of.” “Zyllia?” repeated Sir John looking puzzled. “Look behind you,” said the Rorka. In the room behind were two figures—Masters and a woman. The woman was delicately beautiful. Darker than most Keemarnian women, with blue black hair and flashing eyes. “So he has found a mate,” said Sir John softly. “I never thought of Masters and marriage. He seemed too mature. In our world he would have been called ‘middle-aged’ He has seen forty and three summers.” “But Zyllia is mature,” said the Rorka. “She looks a girl, but although her soul is young, she and Masters are not far apart in years.” “You will not object to the match?” “Nay. I have a great opinion of Waz-Masters, but I like not his name.” He touched a bell. “Waz-Masters and the Lady Zyllia. I desire them here at once.” The girl bowed, and in a moment the two were standing before him. “My friend,” said the Rorka kindly, “I like not your name. Waz-Masters sounds crude and harsh. In our language we have a far softer word that means ‘Master’ Henceforward shall you be known by that. Waz-Aemo, for now and ever.” Masters remained silent. He was embarrassed and hardly knew what to do. “So you are going to mate with Zyllia?” said the Rorka. Zyllia bent on one knee, her hands extended in supplication. “Oh Rorka, most noble. Have I thy permission? Him have I promised to wed, if I have thy permission. For I love this stranger dearly.” “My consent was given long ago. I have watched your play with pleasure, my child. Tell Waz-Y-Kjesta he can give you the use of an air bird for your—your honeymoon.” “Oh how can I thank you—” “That is enough. See, the procession has resumed—how beautiful are the flowers—the silks—” and taking these words as their dismissal, they bent on one knee, and then passed from the balcony to the room beyond. The last vehicle had passed, the last burst of music had died away, night fell. But one more ceremony remained to conclude the time of rejoicing—the wedding on the morrow.