"Look," said he to Johannes, "this is very pretty. I would not have cared to see her taken from the water. A drowned person is nearly always an ugly spectacle. Even the most beautiful girl becomes repulsive and clownlike when being dragged out of the water by leg or arm, with face and hair all duck-weed and mud. But _this_ is worth while. Mind, Johannes, genuine artists are always lucky. They come across the beautiful, everywhere. Such an event as this is, for a poet, a rare bit of good luck." * * * * * The next day he was deep in the making of poetry. But Johannes was in a restless, introverted mood, and could find no words for what distressed him. VIII A few days later, the two guests were sitting with their hostess at the afternoon-tea table. "Is it not a frightful thought," said Countess Dolores, "that the poor girl cannot yet have rest, but must do penance for her sinful deed?" "I cannot believe it," said Johannes. "But yet it was a sin." "I would certainly forgive her." "By which we perceive, Dolores," broke in Van Lieverlee, "that Johannes is much more kind-hearted than his beloved Lord." "But why, Johannes, can you not assure us about that of which I have so often asked?" said the countess again. "Can you not put yourself into communication with her?" "No, Mevrouw," replied Johannes. "But your Mahatma, Johannes!" said Van Lieverlee. "He can do it all right. It is child's play for him." "Of whom are you speaking?" asked the hostess, looking with quickened interest at Van Lieverlee. "Of his Mahatma. Has he never told you about his Mahatma?" "Not a word," said the countess, a little pettishly, while Johannes maintained a mortified silence. "Well, Johannes knows a sage--a Yogi--a great Magician. He saw him come ashore from over the North Sea--which phenomenon might be termed levitation--and this Magician traveled with him in disguise." "But, Johannes, why have you never told me that? It was not kind of you. You knew how much I have longed for the advice of such a person." Johannes knew very little to tell. That question exactly concerned what was most perplexing and distressing to him in this situation. Something there was that always restrained him from speaking of Markus--yes, even the thought of him was baffling. And yet how much he longed for him! But he felt that that longing was opposed to the other longings which held him where he was. "I believe," he said at last, timidly, "that he does not like it when I talk about him." "Of course," said Van Lieverlee, "but only in the case of the uninitiated--the common herd." "Do you count me in with them?" asked his hostess in her most engaging manner. "No, oo!" protested Johannes, with great earnestness. "But neither do I know where he is." "He well knows, however, where _we_ are," said Van Lieverlee, "and if we desire to see him, he will come to us." "He surely will not come here," said Johannes. "Why not?"