"Of course," she said, thinking as she looked at him. "Yes. Yes. That is the impression. That is the quality. But in reality-- There are other things in the world beside effects and impressions. After all, that is--an analogy. It is pleasant to go out of houses and dwellings into the open air, but most of us, nearly all of us must live in houses." "Decidedly," said Melville. "He cannot-- What can he do with her? How can he live with her? What life could they have in common?" "It's a case of attraction," said Melville, "and not of plans." "After all," she said, "he must come back--if I let him come back. He may spoil everything now; he may lose his election and be forced to start again, lower and less hopefully; he may tear his heart to pieces----" She stopped at a sob. "Miss Glendower," said Melville abruptly. "I don't think you quite understand." "Understand what?" "You think he cannot marry this--this being who has come among us?" "How could he?" "No--he couldn't. You think his imagination has wandered away from you--to something impossible. That generally, in an aimless way, he has cut himself up for nothing, and made an inordinate fool of himself, and that it's simply a business of putting everything back into place again." He paused and she said nothing. But her face was attentive. "What you do not understand," he went on, "what no one seems to understand, is that she comes----" "Out of the sea." "Out of some other world. She comes, whispering that this life is a phantom life, unreal, flimsy, limited, casting upon everything a spell of disillusionment----" "So that _he_----" "Yes, and then she whispers, 'There are better dreams!'" The girl regarded him in frank perplexity. "She hints of these vague better dreams, she whispers of a way----" "_What_ way?" "I do not know what way. But it is something--something that tears at the very fabric of this daily life." "You mean----?" "She is a mermaid, she is a thing of dreams and desires, a siren, a whisper and a seduction. She will lure him with her----" He stopped. "Where?" she whispered. "Into the deeps." "The deeps?" They hung upon a long pause. Melville sought vagueness with infinite solicitude, and could not find it. He blurted out at last: "There can be but one way out of this dream we are all dreaming, you know." "And that way?" "That way--" began Melville and dared not say it. "You mean," she said, with a pale face, half awakened to a new thought, "the way is----?" Melville shirked the word. He met her eyes and nodded weakly. "But how--?" she asked. "At any rate"--he said hastily, seeking some palliative phrase--"at any rate, if she gets him, this little world of yours-- There will be no coming back for him, you know." "No coming back?" she said. "No coming back," said Melville. "But are you sure?" she doubted. "Sure?" "That it is so?" "That desire is desire, and the deep the deep--yes." "I never thought--" she began and stopped.