Herold clapped John on the shoulder. “Can't you see what a subtle little artistic soul she has?” he cried enthusiastically. “She has evolved for herself the fundamental truth, the vital essence of all art--suggestion. She means that, in order that the proper harmony should be established between the artist and the person to whom he is making his appeal, the latter must go a certain way to meet him. He must exercise his imagination, too, on the same lines. The measure of your appreciation, say, of Turner, is the length of the imaginative journey you make toward him. When a thing needs no imaginative effort to get hold of it, it's not a work of art. You have n't got to go half way to the housemaid to realize a slice of bread and butter. That's where so-called realism fails. Stella 's' afraid that if she saw us all in flesh and blood on the stage, nothing would be left to her imagination. She's right in essence.” Stella smiled on him gratefully. “That 's exactly how I feel, but I could n't have expressed it. How do you manage to know all these funny things that go on inside me?” “I wish I did,” said Herold, with a touch of wistfulness. “But you do.” She turned to John. “Does n't he, Belovedest?” Herold glanced at the clock. “I must run. I promised Sir Oliver to go to church. We 'll have the rest of the play this afternoon.” “Why don't you go to church, too?” Stella asked when Herold had gone. “I 'm not so good as Walter,” he replied. “You are,” she cried warmly. He shook his head. He knew that Herold's churchgoing was not an act of great spiritual devotion; for the Southcliff service was dull, and the vicar, good, limited man, immeasurably duller. It was an act of characteristic unselfishness: he went so as to be a buffer between Sir Oliver and his wife, who invariably quarreled during their sedate, official walk to and from morning service, and on this particular occasion, with fresh contentious matter imported from the outside, were likely to hold discourse with each other more than usually acrimonious. “Walter's a sort of saint,” said he, “who can hear the music of the spheres. I can't. I just jog along the ground and listen to barrel-organs.”, They argued the point for a while, then drifted back to Herold's acting, thence to the story of the play. “I wonder what 's going to happen,” said Stellamaris. “If Dorothy does n't marry her sailor, I shall never get over it.” John laughed. “Suppose the sailor turns out to be a dark, double-dyed, awful villain?” “Oh, he can't; he's young and beautiful.” “Don't you believe that beautiful people can be villains?” “No,” said Stella; “it 's silly.” She looked for a while out to her familiar sea, the source of all her inspiration, and her brows were delicately knitted. “I may as well tell you,” she said at last with great solemnity, “a conclusion I've come to after lots of thought--yes, dear Belovedest, I lie here and think lots and lots--I don't believe the Bible is true.”