This enchanted afternoon, Mary and the Sailor didn't talk divorce. Many things in earth and heaven they talked about, but that subject was not among them. They scaled the heights together, they roamed the mountain places. She told him that the first book of "A Master Mariner," which she had been allowed to read in manuscript, had carried her completely away, and she most sincerely hoped that he would be able to sustain a soaring eagle flight through the hundreds of pages of the two books to follow. "But you will," she said. "I am convinced of it. I have made up my mind that you must." As she spoke the words the look of her amidst a glory of color set his soul on fire. It was as much as he could do to refrain from taking the hand of Athena. He wanted to cry aloud his happiness. She looked every inch of royal kin as thus she stood amid flowers, a high and grave wisdom enfolding her. She was indeed a daughter of the gods, tall, slender, virile, an aureole of purest poetry upon her brows that only John Milton could have hymned in their serenity. "Edward Ambrose thinks as I do about it," she said. "He dined with us last night, and afterwards we had a long talk. I hardly dare tell what hopes he has of you. And, of course, one oughtn't. But, somehow, I can't help it ... I can't help it...." She spoke to herself rather than to him. The words fell from her lips involuntarily, as if she were in a dream. "You are so far upon the road that last night Edward and I willed it together that you should go to the end of your journey. We both feel, somehow, that you must ... you must ... you must!" Again the Sailor wanted to cry out as he looked at her. He thought he could see the tears leap to her eyes. But that may have been because they had leaped to his own. He could not trust himself to speak. He dare not continue to look at her. "What a life you must have had!" It was the first time that note had been on the lips of Athena. The sound of it was more than music, it was sorcery. "You must have had a wonderful life. And I suppose in some ways..." The beautiful voice sank until it could not be heard, and then rose a little. "In some ways, it must have been ... rather terrible." He did not speak nor did he look at her. But had he been a strong man armed, he would have fled that magician-haunted garden. He would have left her then, he would never have looked on her again. "... Rather terrible." In an odd crescendo those words fell again from the lips of Athena. "Edward thinks so. But it's an impertinence, isn't it? Except that some lives are the property of others ... of the race. You are not offended?" "No," he said. And then feeling that it might have the sound of yes, he gathered defiantly all that remained of his will. "My life has not been at all like what you and Mr. Ambrose think. It has been just hell."