"You think so?" and my host lit his cigar with a grave and pre-occupied air--"Then I'm afraid, you don't know much about what I shall call natural psychics. What belongs to the earth tends earthwards,--surely you realize that? Gold most strictly belongs to the earth,--you dig it out of the ground,--you handle it and dispose of it in solid wedges or bars--it is a substantial metal enough. Genius belongs to nobody knows where,--you cannot dig it up or pass it on, or do anything with it except stand and marvel--it is a rare visitant and capricious as the wind, and generally makes sad havoc among the conventionalities of men. It is as I said an 'upper' thing, beyond earthly smells and savours,--and those who have it always live in unknown high latitudes. But money is a perfectly level commodity,--level with the ground;--when you have much of it, you come down solidly on your flat soles and down you stay!" I laughed. "Upon my word you preach very eloquently against wealth!" I said--"You yourself are unusually rich,--are you sorry for it?" "No, I am not sorry, because being sorry would be no use"--he returned--"And I never waste my time. But I am telling you the truth--Genius and great riches hardly ever pull together. Now I, for example,--you cannot imagine what great capabilities I had once!--a long time ago--before I became my own master!" "And you have them still I am sure"--I averred, looking expressively at his noble head and fine eyes. The strange subtle smile I had noticed once or twice before lightened his face. "Ah, you mean to compliment me!" he said--"You like my looks,--many people do. Yet after all there is nothing so deceptive as one's outward appearance. The reason of this is that as soon as childhood is past, we are always pretending to be what we are not,--and thus, with constant practice from our youth up, we manage to make our physical frames complete disguises for our actual selves. It is really wise and clever of us,--for hence each individual is so much flesh-wall through which neither friend nor enemy can spy. Every man is a solitary soul imprisoned in a self-made den,--when he is quite alone he knows and frequently hates himself,--sometimes he even gets afraid of the gaunt and murderous monster he keeps hidden behind his outwardly pleasant body-mask, and hastens to forget its frightful existence in drink and debauchery. That is what I do occasionally,--you would not think it of me, would you?" "Never!" I replied quickly, for something in his voice and aspect moved me strangely--"You belie yourself, and wrong your own nature." He laughed softly.