She smiled,--a little cold smile like the flicker of a sun-ray on ice. They had arrived at the border of the lake, and a boat with the picturesque lateen sail of Geneva awaited them with Vasho in charge. Diana stepped in and seated herself among a pile of cushions arranged for her comfort,--Dimitrius took the helm, and Vasho settled himself down to the management of the ropes. The graceful craft was soon skimming easily along the water with a fair light wind, and Diana in a half-reclining attitude, looking up at the splendid sky, found herself wishing that she could sail on thus, away from all things present to all things future! All things past seemed so long past!--she scarcely thought of them,--and “all things future”?--What would they be? Dimitrius, seated close beside her at the stern, suddenly addressed her in a low, cautious tone. “You know that this is the first week in June?” “Yes.” “Your time is drawing very near,” he went on. “On the evening of the twentieth you will come to me in the laboratory. And you will be ready--for anything!” She heard him, apparently uninterested, her face still upturned to the stars. “For anything!” she repeated dreamily--“For an End, or a new Beginning! Yes,--I quite understand. I shall be ready.” “Without hesitation or fear?” “Have I shown either?” He ventured to touch the small hand that lay passively outside the folds of her cloak. “No,--you have been brave, docile, patient, obedient,” he answered. “All four things rare qualities in a woman!--or so men say! You would have made a good wife, only your husband would have crushed you!” She smiled. “I quite agree. But what crowds of women have been so ‘crushed’ since the world began!” “They have been useful as the mothers of the race,” said Dimitrius. “The mothers of what race?” she asked. “The human race, of course!” “Yes, but which section of it?” she persisted, with a cold little laugh. “For instance,--the mothers of the Assyrian race seem to have rather wasted their energies! What has become of _that_ race which they bore, bred and fostered? Where is the glory of those past peoples? What was the use of them? They have left nothing but burnt bricks and doubtful records!” “True!--but Destiny has strange methods, and their existence may have been necessary.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I fail to see it!” she said. “To me it all seems waste--wanton, wicked waste. Man lives in some wrong, mistaken way--the real joy of life must be to dwell on earth like a ray of light, warming and fructifying all things unconsciously--coming from the sun and returning again to the sun, never losing a moment of perfect splendour!” “But, to have no consciousness is death,” said Dimitrius. “A ray of light is indifferent to joy. Consciousness with intelligence makes happiness.” She was silent. “You are well?” he asked, gently. “Perfectly!” “And happy?” “I suppose so.”