"You forget!--he is bound to keep his word, according to the legend"--said Rimânez--"He swore before God that he would destroy Man utterly,--he must therefore fulfil that oath, if he can. Angels, it would seem, may not swear before the Eternal without endeavouring at least to fulfil their vows,--men swear in the name of God every day without the slightest intention of carrying out their promises." "But it's all the veriest nonsense,"--I said somewhat impatiently--"All these old legends are rubbish. You tell the story well, and almost as if you believed in it,--that is because you have the gift of speaking with eloquence. Nowadays no one believes in either devils or angels;--I, for example, do not even believe in the soul." "I know you do not"--he answered suavely--"And your scepticism is very comfortable because it relieves you of all personal responsibility. I envy you! For--I regret to say, I am compelled to believe in the soul." "Compelled!" I echoed--"That is absurd--no one can compel you to accept a mere theory." He looked at me with a flitting smile that darkened rather than lightened his face. "True! very true! There is no compelling force in the whole Universe,--Man is the supreme and independent creature,--master of all he surveys and owning no other dominion save his personal desire. True--I forgot! Let us avoid theology, please, and psychology also,--let us talk about the only subject that has any sense or interest in it--namely, Money. I perceive your present plans are definite,--you wish to publish a book that shall create a stir and make you famous. It seems a modest enough campaign! Have you no wider ambitions? There are several ways, you know, of getting talked about. Shall I enumerate them for your consideration?" I laughed. "If you like!" "Well, in the first place I should suggest your getting yourself properly paragraphed. It must be known to the press that you are an exceedingly rich man. There is an Agency for the circulation of paragraphs,--I daresay they'll do it sufficiently well for about ten or twenty guineas." I opened my eyes a little at this. "Oh, is that the way these things are done?" "My dear fellow, how else should they be done?" he demanded somewhat impatiently--"Do you think _anything_ in the world is done without money? Are the poor, hard-working journalists your brothers or your bosom friends that they should lift you into public notice without getting something for their trouble? If you do not manage them properly in this way, they'll abuse you quite heartily and free of cost,--that I can promise you! I know a 'literary agent,' a very worthy man too, who for a hundred guineas down, will so ply the paragraph wheel that in a few weeks it shall seem to the outside public that Geoffrey Tempest, the millionaire, is the only person worth talking about, and the one desirable creature whom to shake hands with is next in honour to meeting Royalty itself."