‘Yes,’ he replied, in a gentle, hesitating voice--‘yes, I love the truth. We all love the truth when we see it, I think. But I love a whole truth better than a half truth. When a man is reading the Book of Life by the light of the sun, you would not expect him to go back and read it in a cave by even the brightest of lamps? You have very bright lamps; I have the sun.’ Gundred collected all her forces for a theological argument such as her soul loved. ‘But what is the point exactly of being a Buddhist, uncle?’ she inquired, determined to fire the first shot. However, the Bishop had not broken his journey through space in order to indulge in feminine polemics. He smiled demurely. ‘For one thing, niece,’ he answered slowly, ‘we are not required or permitted by our Faith to believe that two-thirds of the world are doomed inevitably to burn in fire for all eternity--as you, I understand, are bound to believe, by all your many different varieties of Christianity. Now that, dear niece, would be, I am sure, a very great comfort to your tender nature.’ Gundred was on the point of making a dignified rejoinder, to the effect that one does not talk of such things, or think of them, but hopes for the best. However, she felt a hostile influence compressing her words. A strange force was over her, compelling silence. In another minute she found that she could hold the field no longer. Wishing with all her heart to stay, she yet found herself mysteriously forced to rise and make her excuses. The uncle received her explanations gently, and gave her thanks for the hospitable reception that she had extended to a stranger. He would not see her again, for in a few moments he must be on his way again. But though it might be long before they met again, he would tender her his blessing. Accepting the tribute with graceful reserve, Gundred passed reluctantly out of the room. Kingston faced round eagerly towards the visitor. What strange message was it that had come to him through such unexpected lips? Was the whole story a fairy-tale? How could his secret wishes and longings have reached the notice of this stranger twelve thousand miles across the sea? Surely the soul has no system of wireless telegraphy? Kingston had a sudden uneasy recollection of telepathy, and the vast range of possibilities that it opened up. He fell silent, awaiting his uncle’s next word. The little old man sat huddled in his chair, gazing straight before him. The withered claw-like hands were fastened one over the other; the pale mysterious eyes were fixed on things very far away. ‘Bound on the wheel,’ he said at last, ‘bound again and again on the wheel of false desire.’ Kingston asked him what he meant.