A protracted silence followed these last words. Evarne continued to gaze at Morris with the rapt expression she always wore when he was pouring fresh thoughts into her mind. This suggestion of a triple alliance between illicit love, the possession of a soul, and success in Art, possessed all the charms and the startling qualities of novelty. "You are trying to make me think selfishly," she murmured at last, "but you must never believe that my own progress is of more consequence to me than----" She looked at him in silence again, and her eyes and her thoughts grew full of tenderness. Clasping her hands together, she went on, "And oh! if it were, I'm sure, oh! so sure, that the love I feel for you already is--is----" "It is not of the sort that counts." "But Socrates says that pure love----" Morris interrupted her. He felt that this troublesome antique philosopher must be resolutely suppressed once and for all. "I cannot claim as intimate an acquaintance with the opinions of that gentleman as you possess, little sage; nevertheless, I'll be bound that he supports my opinion. I can't definitely remember, mark you; I am only sure on general principles that no one who taught your pretty, sentimental rubbish--forgive me, sweetheart--could have contrived to get himself accepted for so long. You look--or rather we will seek together--and I'll warrant that I find and show you confirmation of my words." * * * * * That night Evarne retired considerably earlier than usual, but unable to sleep, and soon utterly weary of the darkness and her own tangled thoughts, she resolved to follow Morris's advice of the afternoon. She would delve once more into that master-mind that they had both invoked as upholding their contrary ideals. Flashing on the light, she went into the red room, and returned with her arms filled with the six big volumes of Plato. Tumbling them all on the table by her side she slipped into bed again, and reclining comfortably amid her soft, faintly-perfumed pillows, drew a volume at random from the pile, then hesitated a moment before opening it. She had perfect confidence that in these works of Plato no sentiments would be found of the nature that Morris sought. "My dear one is unwise, after holding up fame and success as a bribe, to send me to read this--which is my Bible--and which teaches that happiness lies only in the pursuit of wisdom, of virtue, of all that is good," was her thought, as she lazily laid open the pages. Little did she deem that her bewildering doubts and difficulties were at length to be definitely solved.