For the names were true.  By this soft intoning utterance they seemed to pass mutually into the secret rhythm of that Eternal Principle of Speech which exists behind the spoken sound and is independent of its means of manifestation.  Their central beings, screened and limited behind their names, knew an instant of synchronous rhythmical vibration.  It was their introduction absolute to one another, for it was an instant of naked revelation.

“Spinrobin....”

“Miriam....”

VIII

...  A great volume of sound suddenly enveloped and caught away the two singing names, and the spell was broken.  Miriam dropped her eyes; Spinrobin looked up.  It was Mr. Skale’s voice upon them with a shout.

“Splendid! splendid!” he cried; “your voices, like your names, are made for one another, in quality, pitch, accent, everything.”  He was enthusiastic rather than excited; but to Spinrobin, taking part in this astonishing performance, to which the other two alone held the key, it all seemed too perplexing for words.  The great bass crashed and boomed for a moment about his ears; then came silence.  The test, or whatever it was, was over.  It had been successful.

Mr. Skale, his face still shining with enthusiasm, turned towards him.  Miriam, equally happy, watched, her hands folded in her lap.

“My dear fellow,” exclaimed the clergyman, half rising in his chair, “how mad you must think us!  How mad you must think us!  I can only assure you that when you know more, as you soon shall, you will understand the importance of what has just taken place....”

He said a good deal more that Spinrobin did not apparently quite take in.  He was too bewildered.  His eyes sought the girl where she sat opposite, gazing at him.  For all its pallor, her face was tenderly soft and beautiful; more pure and undefiled, he thought, than any human countenance he had ever seen, and sweet as the face of a child.  Utterly unstained it was.  A similar light shone in the faces of Skale and Mrs. Mawle.  In their case it had forged its way through the more or less defiling garment of a worn and experienced flesh.  But the light in Miriam’s eyes and skin was there because it had never been extinguished.  She had retained her pristine brilliance of soul.  Through the little spirit of the perplexed secretary ran a thrill of genuine worship and adoration.

“Mr. Skale’s coffee is served in the library,” announced the voice of the housekeeper abruptly behind them; and when Spinrobin turned again he discovered that Miriam had slipped from the room unobserved and was gone.

Mr. Skale took his companion’s arm and led the way towards the hall.

“I am glad you love her,” was his astonishing remark.  “It is the first and most essential condition of your suiting me.”

“She is delightful, wonderful, charming, sir—­”

“Not ‘sir,’ if you please,” replied the clergyman, standing aside at the threshold for his guest to pass; “I prefer the use of the name, you know.  I think it is important.”