The next day Diana entered upon her work,--and for a fortnight
following she was kept fully employed. But nothing mysterious,
nothing alarming or confusing to the mind was presented for her
contemplation or co-operation. Not once was she called upon to enter
the laboratory where the strange wheel whirled at the bidding of the
influence of light, going faster or slower, according to the ascension
or declension of the sun; and not once did Dimitrius refer to the
subject of his discourse with her on that first moonlight night of her
arrival. Her knowledge of Latin and Greek stood her in good stead,
for she was set to translate some musty rolls of vellum, on which
were inscribed certain abstruse scientific propositions of a thousand
years old,--problems propounded by the Assyrians, and afterwards
copied by the Latins, who for the most part, had left out some of the
original phraseology, thereby losing valuable hints and suggestions,
which Dimitrius was studying to discover and replace. Diana was a
careful, clever, and devotedly conscientious worker; nothing escaped
her, and she shirked no pains to unravel the difficulties, which to
less interested students, might have seemed insuperable. Much as she
desired to know more of Dimitrius himself and his own special line of
research, she held her peace and asked no questions, merely taking
his instructions and faithfully doing exactly as she was told. She
worked in the great library where he had at first received her, and
where the curious steel instrument she had noticed on entering, swung
to and fro continuously, striking off a pin’s point of fire as it
moved. Sometimes in the pauses of her close examination of the faded
and difficult Latin script on which all her energies were bent, she
would lift her eyes and look at this strange object as though it were
a living companion in the room, and would almost mentally ask it to
disclose its meaning; and one morning, impelled by a sudden fancy, she
put her watch open on the table, and measured the interval between one
spark of fire and the next. She at once found that the dots of flame
were struck off with precision at every second. They were, in fact,
seconds of time.
“So that, if one had leisure to watch the thing,” she mused, “one would
know that when sixty fire-flashes have flown into air, one minute has
passed. And I wonder what becomes of these glittering particles?”
She knew well enough that they did not perish, but were only absorbed
into another elemental organism. She had observed, too, that the
movement of the whole machine, delicately balanced on its crystal
pedestal, was sharp and emphatic when the sun was at the meridian,
and more subdued though not less precise in the afternoon. She had
very little opportunity, however, to continue a long watching of this
inexplicable and apparently meaningless contrivance after midday, as
then her hours of work were considered over and she was free to do as
she liked. Sometimes she remained in her own apartments, practising her
music, or reading,--and more often than not she went for a drive out
into the open country with Madame Dimitrius with the light victoria
and pair, which was a gift from Dimitrius to his mother, who could
not be persuaded to drive in a motor-car. It was a charming turn-out,
recognised in the neighbourhood as “the Doctor’s carriage”--for though
Geneva and its environs are well supplied with many professors of
medicine and surgery, Dimitrius seemed at this period to have gained a
reputation apart from the rest as “the” doctor, _par excellence_. Once
Diana asked him whether he had a large practice? He laughed.
“None at all!” he replied. “I tell everybody that I have retired
from the profession in order to devote all my time to scientific
research--and this is true. But it does not stop people from sending
for me at a critical moment when all other efforts to save a life have
failed. And then of course I do my best.”
“And are you always successful?” she went on.
“Not always. How can I be? If I am sent for to rescue a man who has
overfed and over-drunken himself from his youth onwards, and who, as
a natural consequence, has not a single organ in his body free from
disease, all my skill is of no avail--I cannot hinder him from toppling
into the unconsciousness of the next embryo, where, it is to be hoped,
he will lose his diseases with his fleshy particles. I can save a
child’s life generally--and the lives of girls and women who have not
been touched by man. The life-principle is very strong in these,--it
has not been tampered with.”
He closed the conversation abruptly, and she perceived that he had no
inclination to talk of his own healing power or ability.
After about a month or six weeks at the Château Fragonard, Diana began
to feel very happy,--happier than she had ever been in her life. Though
she sometimes thought of her parents, she knew perfectly that they
were not people to grieve long about any calamity,--besides which,
her “death” was not a calamity so far as they were concerned. They
would call it such, for convention’s sake and in deference to social
and civil observances--but “Ma” would console herself with a paid
“companion-housekeeper”--and if that companion-housekeeper chanced
to be in the least good-looking or youthful, “Pa” would blossom out
into such a juvenility of white and “fancy” waistcoats and general
conduct as frequently distinguishes elderly gentlemen who are loth
to lose their reputation for gallantry. And Diana wasted no time
in what would have been foolish regret, had she felt it, for her
complete and fortunate severance from “home” which was only home to
her because her duty made her consider it so. A great affection had
sprung up between her and Madame Dimitrius; the handsome old lady
was a most lovable personality, simple, pious, unaffected, and full
of a devotion for her son which was as touching as it was warm and
deep. She had absolute confidence in him, and never worried him by
any inquisitiveness concerning the labours which kept him nearly all
day away from her, shut up in his laboratory, which he alone had the
secret of opening or closing. Hers was the absolute reliance of “the
perfect love which casteth out fear;” all that he did was right and
_must_ be right in her eyes,--and when she saw how whole-heartedly and
eagerly Diana threw herself into the tedious and difficult work he
had put before her to do, she showed towards that hitherto lonely and
unloved woman a tenderness and consideration to which for years she
had been unaccustomed. Very naturally Diana responded to this kindness
with impulsive warmth and gratitude, and took pleasure in performing
little services, such as a daughter might do, for the sweet-natured and
gentle lady whose friendship and sympathy she appreciated more and more
each day. She loved to help her in little household duties,--to mend
an occasional tiny hole in the fine old lace which Madame generally
wore with her rich black silk gowns,--to see that her arm-chair and
foot-stool were placed just as she liked them to be,--to wind the wool
for her knitting, and to make her laugh with some quaint or witty
story. Diana was an admirable _raconteuse_, and she had a wonderful
memory,--moreover, her impressions of persons and things were tinged
with the gaiety of a perceptive humour. Sometimes Dimitrius himself,
returning from a walk or from a drive in his small open auto-car,
would find the two sitting together by a cheerful log fire in the
drawing-room, laughing and chatting like two children, Diana busy with
her embroidery, her small, well-shaped, white hands moving swiftly and
gracefully among the fine wools from which she worked her “Jacobean”
designs, and his mother knitting comforts for the poor in preparation
for the winter which was beginning to make itself felt in keen airs and
gusts of snow. On one of these occasions he stood for some minutes on
the threshold, looking at them as they sat, their backs turned towards
him, so that they were not at once aware of his presence. Diana’s head,
crowned with its bright twists of hair, was for the moment the chief
object of his close attention,--he noted its compact shape, and the
line of the nape of the neck which carried it--a singularly strong
and perfect line, if judged by classic methods. It denoted health
and power, with something of pride,--and he studied it anatomically
and physiologically with all the interest of a scholar. Suddenly
she turned, and seeing him apparently waiting at the door, smiled a
greeting.
“Do you want me?” she asked.
He advanced into the room.
“Ought I to want you?” he counter-queried. “These are not working
hours! If you were a British workman such an idea as my wanting you
‘out of time’ would never enter your head! As a British working
_woman_, you should stipulate for the same privileges as a British
working man.”
He drew a chair to the fire, and as his mother looked at him with
loving, welcoming eyes, he took her hand and kissed it.
“Winter is at hand,” he continued, giving a stir with the poker to the
blazing logs in the grate. “It is cold to-day--with the cold of the
glaciers, and I hear that the snow blocks all the mountain passes. We
are at the end of October--we must expect some bitter weather. But in
Switzerland the cold is dry and bracing--it strengthens the nerves and
muscles and improves the health. How do you stand a severe winter, Miss
May?”
“I have never thought about it,” she answered. “All seasons have beauty
for me, and I have never suffered very much by either the cold or the
heat. I think I have been more interested in other things.”
He looked at her intently.
“What other things?”
She hesitated. A faint colour stole over her cheeks.
“Well,--I hardly know how to express it--things of life and death. I
have always been rather a suppressed sort of creature--with all my aims
and wishes pent up,--pressed into a bottle, as it were, and corked
tight!” She laughed, and went on. “Perhaps if the cork were drawn there
might be an explosion! But, wrongly or rightly, I have judged myself
as an atom of significance made _in_significant by circumstances and
environment, and I have longed to make my ‘significance,’ however
small, distinct and clear, even though it were only a pin’s point of
meaning. If I said this to ordinary people, they would probably exclaim
‘How dull!’ and laugh at me for such an idea----”
“Of course!--dull people would laugh,” agreed Dimitrius. “People in the
aggregate laugh at most things, except lack of money. That makes them
cry--if not outwardly, then inwardly. But I do not laugh,--for if you
can forget heat and cold and rough weather in the dream of seeking to
discover your own significance and meaning in a universe where truly
nothing exists without its set place and purpose, you are a woman
of originality as well as intelligence. But that much of you I have
already discovered.”
She glanced at him brightly.
“You are very kind!”
“Now do you mean that seriously or ironically?” he queried, with a
slight smile. “I am not really ‘very kind’--I consider myself very
cruel to have kept you chained for more than a month to rolls of vellum
inscribed with crabbed old Latin characters, illegible enough to
bewilder the strongest eyes. But you have done exceedingly well,--and
we have all three had time to know each other and to like each other,
so that a harmony between us is established. Yes--you have done more
than exceedingly well----”
“I am glad you are pleased,” said Diana, simply, resting one hand on
her embroidery frame and looking at him with somewhat tired, anxious
eyes. “I was rather hoping to see you this evening, though it is,
as you say, after working hours, for I wanted very much to tell you
that the manuscript I am now deciphering seems to call for your own
particular attention. I should prefer your reading it with me before I
go further.”
“You are very conscientious,” he said, fixing his eyes keenly upon
her--“Is she not, mother mine? She is afraid she will learn something
important and necessary to my work before I have a chance to study it
for myself. Loyal Miss Diana!”
Madame Dimitrius glanced wistfully from her son to Diana, and from
Diana back to her son again.
“Yes, she is loyal, Féodor! You have found a treasure in her,” she
said--“I am sure of it. It seems a providence that she came to us.”
“Is it not Shakespeare who says, ‘There’s a special providence in the
fall of a sparrow’?” he queried lightly. “How much more ‘special’ then
is the coming of a Diana!”
It was the first time he had used her Christian name without any
ceremonious prefix in her presence, and she was conscious of a thrill
of pleasure, for which she instantly reproached herself. “I have no
business to care what or how he calls me,” she thought. “He’s my
employer,--nothing more.”
“Diana,” repeated Dimitrius, watching her narrowly from under his
now half-shut eyelids. “Diana is a name fraught with beautiful
associations--the divine huntress--the goddess of the moon! Diana, the
fleet of foot--the lady of the silver bow! What poets’ dreams, what
delicate illusions, what lovely legends are clustered round the name!”
She looked at him, half amused, half indifferent.
“Yes,--it is a thousand pities I was ever given such a name,” she
said. “If I were a Martha, a Deborah or a Sarah, it would suit me much
better. But Diana! It suggests a beautiful young woman----”
“You were young once!” he suggested, meaningly.
“Ah, yes, once!” and she sighed. “Once is a long time ago!”
“I never regret youth,” said Madame Dimitrius. “My age has been much
happier and more peaceful. I would not go back to my young days.”
“That is because you have fulfilled your particular destiny,”
interposed her son,--“You fell in love with my father--what happy times
they must have been when the first glamour of attraction drew you both
to one another!--you married him,--and I am the result! Dearest mother,
there was nothing more for you to do, with your devoted and gentle
nature! You became the wife of a clever man,--he died, having fulfilled
_his_ destiny in giving you--may I say so?--a clever son,--myself! What
more can any woman ask of ordinary nature?”
He laughed gaily, and putting his arm round his mother, fondled her as
if she were a child.
“Yes, beloved!--you have done all your duty!” he went on. “But you
have sacrificed your own identity--the thing that Miss Diana calls her
‘significance.’ You lost that willingly when you married--all women
lose it when they marry:--and you have never quite found it again. But
you _will_ find it! The slow process of evolution will make of you a
‘fine spirit’ when the husk of material life is cast off for wider
expansion.”
As he spoke, Diana looked at mother and son with the odd sense of being
an outside spectator of two entirely unconnected identities,--the one
overpowering and shadowing the other, but wholly unrelated and more or
less opposed in temperament. Madame Dimitrius was distinguished by an
air of soft and placid dignity, made sympathetic by a delicate touch
of lassitude indicative of age and a desire for repose, while Féodor
Dimitrius himself gave the impression of a strong energy restrained and
held within bounds as a spirited charger is reined and held in by his
rider, and, above all, of a man aware of his own possibilities and full
of set resolve to fulfil them.
“Is that embroidery of a very pressing nature?” he suddenly said, then,
with a smile. “Or do you think you could spare a few moments away from
it?”
She at once put aside her frame and rose.
“Did I not ask you when you came in if you wanted me?” she queried.
“Somehow I was quite sure you did! You know I am always ready to serve
you if I can.”
He still had one arm round his mother,--but he raised his eyes and
fixed them on Diana with an expression which was to her new and strange.
“I know you are!” he said, slowly. “And I shall need your service in a
difficulty--very soon! But not just now. I have only a few things to
say which I think should not be put off till to-morrow. We’ll go into
the library and talk there.”
He bent down and kissed his mother’s snowy and still luxuriant hair,
adding for her benefit:
“We shall not be long, dearest of women! Keep warm and cosy by the
fire, and you will not care for the ‘significance’ of yourself so long
as you are loved! That is all some women ask for,--love.”
“Is it not enough?” said Diana, conscious of her own “asking” in that
direction.
“Enough? No!--not half or quarter enough! Not for some women or some
men--they demand more than this (and they have a right to demand more)
out of the infinite riches of the Universe, Love,--or what is generally
accepted under that name, is a mere temporary physical attraction
between two persons of opposite sex, which lessens with time as it
is bound to lessen because of the higher claims made on the soul,--a
painful thing to realise!--but we must not shiver away from truth like
a child shivering away from its first dip in the sea, or be afraid of
it. Lovers forget lovers, friends forget friends, husbands forget wives
and _vice versa_,--the closest ties are constantly severed----”
“You are wrong, Féodor--we do _not_ forget!” said Madame Dimitrius,
with tender reproach in her accents. “I do not forget your father--he
is dear to me as lover and husband still. And whether God shall please
to send my soul to heaven or to hell, I could never forget my love for
_you!_”
“Beloved, I know!--I feel all you say--but you are an exception to
the majority--and we will not talk personalities! I cannot”--here he
laughed and kissed her hand again--“I cannot have my theories upset by
a _petite Maman_!”
He left the room then and Diana followed him. Once in the library he
shut the door and locked it.
“Now you spoke of something in your translations that seemed to call
for my attention,” he said. “I am ready to hear what it is.”
Diana went to the table desk where she habitually worked, and took up
some pages of manuscript, neatly fastened together in readable form.
“It is a curious subject,” she said. “In the Assyrian originals it
seems to have been called ‘The problem of the Fourth, Sixth and
Seventh, culminating in the Eighth.’ Whether the Latin rendering truly
follows the ancient script, it is, of course, impossible to say,--but
while deciphering the Latin, I came to the conclusion that the Fourth,
Sixth and Seventh were named in the problem as ‘rays’ or ‘tones’ of
light, and the proposed culmination of the Eighth----”
“Stop!” exclaimed Dimitrius, in a strained, eager voice. “Give me your
papers!--let me see!”
She handed them to him at once, and he sat down to read. While he was
thus occupied, her gaze constantly wandered to the small, scythe-like
instrument mowing off the seconds in dots of flame as a mower sweeps
off the heads of daisies in the grass. A curious crimson colour seemed
to be diffused round the whole piece of mechanism,--an effect she
had never noticed before, and then she remembered it was late in the
afternoon and that the sun had set. The rosy light emanating from the
instrument and deeply reflected in the crystal pedestal on which it
was balanced, seemed like an after-glow from the sky,--but the actual
grey twilight outside was too pronounced and cold to admit of such an
explanation.
Suddenly Dimitrius looked up.
“You are right!” he said. “This ancient problem demands my closest
study. And yet it is no problem at all, but only an exposition of
my inmost thought!” He paused,--then: “Come here, Diana May!” he
continued--“I may as well begin with you. Come and sit close beside me.”
She obeyed. With his eyes fixed upon her face, he went on:
“You, as a woman of superior intelligence, have never supposed, I am
sure, that I have secured your services merely to decipher and copy
out old Latin script? No!--I see by your look that you have fully
realised that such is not all the actual need I have of you. I have
waited to find out, by a study of your character and temperament, when
and how I could state plainly my demands. I think I need not wait much
longer. Now this ancient treatise on ‘Problems,’ obscure and involved
in wording as it is, helps me to the conviction that I am on the right
track of discovery. It treats of Light. ‘The problem of the Fourth,
Sixth and Seventh,’ with its ‘ultimate culmination of the Eighth’ is
the clue. In that ‘ultimate culmination’ is the Great Secret!”
His eyes flashed,--his features were transfigured by an inward fervour.
“Have the patience to follow me but a little,” he continued. “You have
sense and ability and you can decipher a meaning from an apparent chaos
of words. Consider, then, that within the limitations of this rolling
ball, the earth, we are permitted to recognise seven tones of music
and seven tones of colour. The existing numbers of the creative sum,
so far as we can count them, are Seven and Five, which added together
make Twelve, itself a ‘creative’ number. Man recognises in himself Five
Senses, Touch, Taste, Sight, Hearing, Smell--but as a matter of fact
he has Seven, for he should include Intuition and Instinct, which are
more important than all the others as the means of communicating with
his surroundings. Now ‘the culmination of the Eighth’ is neither Five
nor Seven nor Twelve,--it is the close or rebound of the Octave--the
end of the leading Seven--the point where a fresh Seven begins. It is
enough for humanity to have arrived at this for the present--for we
have not yet sounded the heights or depths of even the _first_ Seven
radiations which we all agree to recognise. We admit seven tones of
music, and seven tones of colour, but what of our seven rays of light?
We have the ‘violet ray,’ the ‘X ray’--and a newly discovered ray
showing the working bodily organism of man,--but there are _Seven_
Rays piercing the density of ether, which are intended for the use and
benefit of the human being, and which are closely connected with his
personality, his needs and his life. Seven Rays!--and it is for us to
prove and test them all!--which is the very problem you have brought to
my notice in this old Latin document: ‘the Fourth, Sixth and Seventh,
culminating in the Eighth.’”
He put the papers carefully together on the table beside him, and
turned to Diana.
“You have understood me?”
She bent her head.
“Perfectly!”
“You recall the incidents of the first day of your arrival here?--your
brief visit to my laboratory, and what you saw there?”
She smiled.
“Do you think I could ever forget?”
“Well!--that being so I do not see why I should wait,” he said,
musingly, and speaking more to himself than to her. “There is no reason
why I should not begin at once the task which is bound to be long and
difficult! My ‘subject’ is at my disposal--I am free to operate!”
He rose and went to an iron-bound cabinet which he unlocked and took
from thence a small phial containing what appeared to be a glittering
globule like an unset jewel, which moved restlessly to and fro in its
glass prison. He held it up before her eyes.
“Suppose I ask you to swallow this?” he said.
For all answer, she stretched out her hand to take the phial. He
laughed.
“Upon my word, you are either very brave or very reckless!” he
exclaimed--“I hardly know what to think of you! But you shall not
be deceived. This is a single drop of the liquid you saw in process
of distillation within its locked-up cell,--it has a potent, ay,
a terrific force and may cause you to swoon. On the other hand
it may have quite the contrary effect. It _should_ re-vivify--it
_may_ disintegrate,--but I cannot guarantee its action. I know its
composition, but, mark you!--_I have never tested it on any human
creature._ I cannot try it on myself--for if it robbed me of my
capacity to work, I have no one to carry on my researches,--and I would
not try it on my mother,--she is too old, and her life is too precious
to me----”
“Well, my life is precious to nobody,” said Diana, calmly. “Not even to
myself. Shall I take your ‘little dram’ now?”
Dimitrius looked at her in amazement that was almost admiration.
“If you would rather wait a few days, or even weeks longer, do so,” he
answered. “I will not persuade you to any act of this kind in a hurry.
For it is only the first test of many to come.”
“And if I survive the first I shall be good for the last,” said Diana,
merrily. “So come, Doctor Féodor!--give me the mysterious ‘drop’ of
liquid fire!”
Her face was bright with animation and courage--but his grew pale and
haggard with sudden fear. As he still hesitated, she sprang up and took
the phial from his hand.
“Diana! Let me hold you!” he cried, in real agitation--and he caught
her firmly round the waist--“Believe me--there is danger!----But--if
you _will_----”
“One, two, three, and away!” said she, and taking the tiny glass
stopper from the phial she swallowed its contents.
“One, two, three, and away!” it was, indeed!--for she felt herself
whirled off into a strange, dark, slippery vortex of murderous
cold--which suddenly changed to blazing heat--then again to cold,--she
saw giant pinnacles of ice, and enormous clouds of flame rolling upon
her as from a burning sky--then, she seemed to be flying along over
black chasms and striving to escape from a whirlwind which enveloped
her as though she were a leaf in a storm,--till at last no thought, no
personal consciousness remained to her, and, giving up all resistance,
she allowed herself to fall,--down, down ever so far!--when, all at
once a vital freshness and elasticity possessed her as though she had
been suddenly endowed with wings, and she came to herself standing
upright as before, with Dimitrius holding her in the strong grasp of
one arm.
“Well!” she said, aware that she trembled violently, but otherwise not
afraid: “It wasn’t bad! Not much taste about it!”
She saw that he was deadly pale--his eyes were misty with something
like tears in them.
“You brave woman!” he said, in a low tone--“You daring soul!--But--are
you sure you are all right?--Can you stand alone?”
She drew away from his hold.
“Of course! Firm as a rock!”
He looked at her wonderingly,--almost with a kind of terror.
“Thank God!” he murmured--“thank God I have not killed you! If I
had----!”
He dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
Still trembling a little as she was, she felt deeply touched by his
evident emotion, and with that sudden, new and surprising sense of
lightness and buoyancy upon her she ran to him and impulsively knelt
down beside him.
“Don’t think of it, please!” she said, entreatingly, her always sweet
voice striking a soothing note on the air--“Don’t worry! All is well!
I’m as alive as I can be. If you had killed me I quite understand you
would have been very sorry,--but it really wouldn’t have mattered--in
the interests of science! The only trouble for you would have been to
get rid of my body,--bodies are always such a nuisance! But with all
your knowledge I daresay you could have ground me into a little heap
of dust!” And she laughed, quite merrily. “Please don’t sit in such
an attitude of despair!--you’re not half cold-hearted enough for a
scientist!”
He raised his head and looked at her.
“That’s true!” he said, and smiled. “But--I wonder what has made you
the strange woman you are? No fear of the unknown!--No hesitation, even
when death might be the result of your daring,--surely there never was
one of your sex like you!”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure there have been, and are many!” she answered,
rising from her knees, and smiling in cheerful response to his happier
expression: “Women are queer things!--and there’s a part of their
‘queerness’ which men never understand. When they’ve lost everything--I
mean everything which they, with their particular nature and sentiment,
regard as precious, the chief of these being love, which _you_ don’t
think matters much to anybody, they get reckless. Some of them take
to drink--others to drugs--others to preaching in the streets--others
to an openly bad life,--or to any crooked paths leading away and
as far as possible from their spoilt womanhood. Men are to blame
for it,--entirely to blame for treating them as toys instead of as
friends--men are like children who break the toys they have done
with. And a woman who has been broken in this way has ‘no fear of the
unknown’ because the known is bad enough,--and she does not ‘hesitate
to face death,’ being sure it cannot be worse than life. At any rate,
that’s how I feel--or, rather, how I _have_ felt;--just now I’m
extraordinarily glad to be alive!”
“That is because you are conscious of a narrow escape,” he said, with a
keen glance at her. “Isn’t it so?”
She considered for a moment.
“No, I don’t believe it is!” she replied. “It’s something quite
different to that. I’m not in the least aware that I’ve had a narrow
escape!--but I _do_ know that I feel as happy as a schoolgirl out for
her first holiday! That’s rather an odd sensation for a woman ‘of
mature years!’ Oh, I know what it is! It’s the globule!”
She laughed, and clapped her hands.
“That’s it! Doctor, you may thank your stars that your first test has
succeeded! Here I am, living!--and _something_ is dancing about in my
veins like a new sort of air and a new sort of sunshine! It’s a lovely
feeling!”
He rose from the chair where he had thrown himself in his momentary
dejection, and approaching her, took her hand and laid his fingers on
her pulse. He had entirely recovered his usual air of settled and more
or less grave composure.
“Yes,” he said, after a pause, “your pulse is firmer--and _younger_.
So far, so good! Now, obey me. Go and lie down in your own room for
a couple of hours. Sleep, if you can,--but, at any rate, keep in a
recumbent position. You have a charming view from your windows,--and
even in a grey autumn twilight like this, there is something soothing
in the sight of the Alpine snow-line. Rest absolutely quiet till
dinner time. And--afterwards--you will tell me how you feel,--or,
rather, I shall be able to judge for myself.” He released her hand,
but before doing so, kissed it with a Russian’s usual courtesy. “I
repeat,--you are a brave woman!--as brave as any philosopher that
ever swallowed hemlock! And, if your courage holds out sufficiently
to endure the whole of my experiment, I shall owe you the triumph and
gratitude of a life-time!”