And a very droll appearance just then had this “humble student of philosophy and science generally,” for he bent himself to and fro with laughter, and his small eyes almost disappeared behind his shelving brows in the excess of his mirth. And two crosslines formed themselves near his thin mouth--such lines as are carven on the ancient Greek masks which indicate satire. Denzil Murray flushed uncomfortably. “Gervase doesn’t believe in anything but Art,” he said, as though half apologizing for his friend: “Art is the sole object of his existence; I don’t believe he ever has time to think about anything else.” “Of what else should I think, _mon ami_?” exclaimed Gervase mirthfully. “Of life? It is all Art to me; and by Art I mean the idealization and transfiguration of Nature.” “Oh, if you do that sort of thing you are a romancist,” interposed Dr. Dean emphatically. “Nature neither idealizes nor transfigures itself; it is simply Nature and no more. Matter uncontrolled by Spirit is anything but ideal.” “Precisely,” answered Gervase quickly and with some warmth; “but my spirit idealizes it,--my imagination sees beyond it,--my soul grasps it.” “Oh, you have a soul?” exclaimed Dr. Dean, beginning to laugh again. “Now, how did you find that out?” Gervase looked at him in a sudden surprise. “Every man has an inward self, naturally,” he said. “We call it ‘soul’ as a figure of speech; it is really temperament merely.” “Oh, it is merely temperament? Then you don’t think it is likely to outlive you, this soul--to take new phases upon itself and go on existing, an immortal being, when your body is in a far worse condition (because less carefully preserved) than an Egyptian mummy?” “Certainly not!” and Gervase flung away the end of his finished cigarette. “The immortality of the soul is quite an exploded theory. It was always a ridiculous one. We have quite enough to vex us in our present life, and why men ever set about inventing another is more than I am able to understand. It was a most foolish and barbaric superstition.” The gay sound of music now floated towards them from the ball-room,--the strains of a graceful, joyous, half-commanding, half-pleading waltz came rhythmically beating on the air like the measured movement of wings,--and Denzil Murray, beginning to grow restless, walked to and fro, his eyes watching every figure that crossed and re-crossed the hall. But Dr. Dean’s interest in Armand Gervase remained intense and unabated; and approaching him, he laid two lean fingers delicately on the white folds of the Bedouin dress just where the heart of the man was hidden. “‘A foolish and barbaric superstition!’” he echoed slowly and meditatively. “You do not believe in any possibility of there being a life--or several lives--after this present death through which we must all pass inevitably, sooner or later?”