She lifted her eyes to his in something of wonder and protest,--but obeyed his gesture and went straight into the drawing-room where Madame Dimitrius sat as usual, quietly knitting. “I am to bid you good-night!” she said, smiling, as she knelt down for a moment by the old lady’s chair. “Dear, your son is very cross!--and I’m going to bed!” Madame Dimitrius gazed upon her in utter amazement and something of fear. The face uplifted to hers was so radiant and fair that for a moment she was speechless, and the old hands that held the knitting trembled. Remembering her son’s command in good time, she made a strong effort to control herself, and forced a smile. “That’s right, my dear!” she said. “Bed is the best place when you’re tired. I don’t think Féodor means to be cross----” “Oh, no!” agreed Diana, springing up from her kneeling attitude, and kissing Madame’s pale cheek. “He doesn’t ‘mean’ to be anything--but he _is_! Good-night, dearest lady! You are always kind and sweet to me--and I’m grateful!” With those words and an affectionate wave of her hand, she went,--and the moment she had left the room Dimitrius entered it. His mother rose from her chair, and made a gesture with her hands as though she were afraid and sought to repel him. He took those nervous, wavering hands and held them tenderly in his own. “What’s the matter, mother mine?” he asked, playfully. “You have seen her?” “Féodor! Féodor! You are dealing with strange powers!--perhaps powers of evil! Oh, my son! be careful, be careful what you do!” she implored, almost tearfully. “You may not go too far!” “Too far, too far!” he echoed, lightly. “There is no too far or farthest where Nature and Science lead! The Flaming Sword!--it turns every way to keep the Tree of Life!--but I see the blossom under the blade!” She looked up at his dark, strong face in mingled fondness and terror. “You cannot re-create life, Féodor!” she said. “Why not?” he demanded. “To-day our surgeons graft new flesh on old and succeed in their design--why should not fresh cells of life be formed through Nature’s own germinating processes to take the place of those that perish? It is not an impossible theory,--I do not waste my time on problems that can never be solved. Come, come, Mother! Put your superstitious terrors aside--and if you have the faith in God that I have, you will realise that there are no ‘powers of evil’ save man’s own uncontrolled passions, which he inherits from the brute creation, and which it is his business to master! No mere brute beast foraging the world for prey can be an astronomer, a scientist, a thinker, or a ruler of the powers of life,--but a MAN, with self-control, reason, and devout faith with humility, _can_!--for is not the evolvement of his being only ‘a little lower than the angels’?” She sighed, half incredulous. “But beauty----” she said. “Actual beauty----”