beyond me.’ Then the maiden took the blossom from her hair and held it out towards him, for her eyes were opened. ‘My Lord,’ she answered to the peasant lad, ‘my sight is unsealed, and I can see. Very many years hence--a thousand years hence--I see that you, in the fullness of time, even you yourself shall become a revealed Buddha here on earth. Take this flower of mine, then, without money and without price, but promise me only that in that far day I may stand at your right hand and be near you in your glory.’ And the boy smiled and gave her his word. So after all he had his offering to lay before the Blessed One, and his heart was satisfied. And the maiden went her way through life, and on through the many deaths that lay beyond. And he also, the peasant lad, died in the ripeness of his age, and lived and died through many generations, advancing always on the upward road. And at length the time was accomplished, and the maiden’s prophecy fulfilled. For the peasant lad became the Spotless One, the Buddha Sakhya-Muni, High and Holy, altogether Blessed and Perfect, the Best Friend of All the World. And in that day, the maiden found herself again, and came at last to her reward. For she was the Lady Yasodhara, his wife, the first of all the sacred women that trod the happy way and entered into light....”’ Kingston ceased, his voice filled with interrogation, pausing eagerly for Ivor’s opinion, hoping against hope that that opinion might be more illuminating than he felt it would be. Again and again had he tried to kindle that dormant consciousness with scenes like this, always keenly hoping that they would touch some chord of understanding far down in the hidden depths of the boy’s dual personality. But the hope was never to be fulfilled; he knew it was never to be fulfilled, yet each fresh disappointment was sharper and more wounding than the last. Kingston paused for a comment on the story. None came. After a pause he demanded one. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘what did you think of that, Ivor?’ The boy looked up; his attention, though formally yielded to Kingston’s reading, had, in reality, been surreptitiously concentrated on the sporting column of the paper he held in his hand. ‘What did I think of it?’ he repeated a trifle vaguely. ‘Oh, not half bad. Quite a decent bit of writing. But awful rot, sir, of course.’ Kingston vibrated with acute annoyance. Thus, for the thousandth time, the gate of possibilities had been slammed brutally in his face by the uninteresting shadowy, rudimentary soul that shared Ivor Restormel’s body with that wonderful immortal dead. He gazed at the boy with positive hatred in his eyes. In a spasm of irritation Kingston turned towards his wife. ‘And you, Gundred,’ he inquired, ‘what do you think of it? Evidently Ivor hasn’t the faintest notion what it is all about. It says nothing to him. Does it say anything to you?’