more you piqued yourself on your nerve in carrying the thing through without a hitch. “I don’t want to put you entirely out of conceit with your performance. It was very creditable for a beginner, very creditable indeed. But let me tell you, this idea of things being horrible and revolting is all illusion. The terms are purely relative to your limited perceptions. “I’m speaking now to your intelligence—I don’t mean that practical ingenuity which enabled you to dispose of me so neatly. When I say intelligence I mean intelligence. All you did, then, was to redistribute matter. To our incorruptible sense matter never takes any of those offensive forms in which it so often appears to you. Nature has evolved all this horror and repulsion just to prevent people from making too many little experiments like yours. You mustn’t imagine that these things have any eternal importance. Don’t flatter yourself you’ve electrified the universe. For minds no longer attached to flesh and blood, that horrible butchery you were so proud of, Steven, is simply silly. No more terrifying than the spilling of red ink or the rearrangement of a jig-saw puzzle. I saw the whole business, and I can assure you I felt nothing but intense amusement. Your face, Steven, was so absurdly serious. You’ve no idea what you looked like with that chopper. I’d have appeared to you then and told you so, only I knew I should frighten you into fits. “And there’s another grand mistake, my lad—your thinking that I’m haunting you out of revenge, that I’m trying to frighten you.... My dear Steven, if I’d wanted to frighten you I’d have appeared in a very different shape. I needn’t remind you what shape I _might_ have appeared in.... What do you suppose I’ve come for?” “I don’t know,” said Steven in a husky whisper. “Tell me.” “I’ve come to forgive you. And to save you from the horror you _would_ have felt sooner or later. And to stop your going on with your crime.” “You needn’t,” Steven said. “I’m not going on with it. I shall do no more murders.” “There you are again. Can’t you understand that I’m not talking about your silly butcher’s work? I’m talking about your _real_ crime. Your real crime was hating me. “And your very hate was a blunder, Steven. You hated me for something I hadn’t done.” “Aye, what did you do? Tell me that.” “You thought I came between you and your sweetheart. That night when Dorsy spoke to me, you thought I told her to throw you over, didn’t you?” “Aye. And what did you tell her?” “I told her to stick to you. It was you, Steven, who drove her away. You frightened the child. She said she was afraid for her life of you. Not because you half killed that poor boy, but because of the look on your face before you did it. The look of hate, Steven.