“So I am, in the daylight. For instance, when he uses _your_ mouth to advance his arguments, Bickley, but this is another matter. However, if I do not appear again you will know that I died in a good cause, and, I hope, try to recover my remains and give them decent burial. Also, you might inform the Bishop of how I came to my end, that is, if you ever get an opportunity, which is more than doubtful.” “Hurry up, Bastin, hurry up!” said the unfeeling Bickley, “or you will be late for your appointment and put your would-be neophyte into a bad temper.” Then Bastin went, carrying under his arm a large Bible printed in the language of the South Sea Islands. A little while later Yva appeared, arrayed in her wondrous robes which, being a man, it is quite impossible for me to describe. She saw us looking at these, and, after greeting us both, also Tommy, who was enraptured at her coming, asked us how the ladies of our country attired themselves. We tried to explain, with no striking success. “You are as stupid about such matters as were the men of the Old World,” she said, shaking her head and laughing. “I thought that you had with you pictures of ladies you have known which would show me.” Now, in fact, I had in a pocket-book a photograph of my wife in evening-dress, also a miniature of her head and bust painted on ivory, a beautiful piece of work done by a master hand, which I always wore. These, after a moment’s hesitation, I produced and showed to her, Bickley having gone away for a little while to see about something connected with his attempted analysis of the Life-water. She examined them with great eagerness, and as she did so I noted that her face grew tender and troubled. “This was your wife,” she said as one who states what she knows to be a fact. I nodded, and she went on: “She was sweet and beautiful as a flower, but not so tall as I am, I think.” “No,” I answered, “she lacked height; given that she would have been a lovely woman.” “I am glad you think that women should be tall,” she said, glancing at her shadow. “The eyes were such as mine, were they not—in colour, I mean?” “Yes, very like yours, only yours are larger.” “That is a beautiful way of wearing the hair. Would you be angry if I tried it? I weary of this old fashion.” “Why should I be angry?” I asked. At this moment Bickley reappeared and she began to talk of the details of the dress, saying that it showed more of the neck than had been the custom among the women of her people, but was very pretty. “That is because we are still barbarians,” said Bickley; “at least, our women are, and therefore rely upon primitive methods of attraction, like the savages yonder.” She smiled, and, after a last, long glance, gave me back the photograph and the miniature, saying as she delivered the latter: “I rejoice to see that you are faithful, Humphrey, and wear this picture on your heart, as well as in it.”