“And if it is a fair question, when will the—­the simple ceremony take place?”

“To-morrow evening.”

“To-morrow evening!” exclaimed the professor, taken by surprise.  “I thought a priestess could not marry.”

“To-morrow at sunset she will be a free woman.  Her priesthood will come to an end.”

“And—­pardon me—­but what are you going to do with her when you’ve got her?  Will you bring her home to the car—­there is very little room here, as you know.  Do you propose to take her to the earth, where I’m afraid she will probably die like a tender plant or a bird of paradise in a cage?  Do you think her father would consent to that?”

“We are not going away just yet.  There will be time enough to arrange about that.”

“Well, we can’t stay here much longer.  I must get back to my work—­and you know we intended to pay a flying visit to Mercury, and if possible to get a closer look at the sun.”

“All right.  You can go as soon as you like.  I shall remain behind.  Carmichael will take you to the earth, and then come back here for me.”

“You talk as if it were merely a question of a drive.”

“I think we have proved that it is not more dangerous to go from one planet to another than it is to get about town.”

“If an accident should occur.  If Carmichael cannot return—­”

“I shall be much happier here than I should be on the earth.  Even if I had never met Alumion I think I should come back and stay on Venus.”

“It is certainly a better world, as far as we have seen, but remember your own words, ‘Man was made for the earth.’  Don’t you think this eternal summer—­these Elysian Fields—­would pall upon you in course of time?  Constant bliss, like everlasting honey, might cloy your earthly palate, and make you sigh for our poor, old, wicked, miserable world, that in spite of all its faults and crimes, is yet so interesting, so variable, so dramatic—­so dear.”

“Never.  With Alumion even Hades would be an Elysium.”

“Think of your friends at home, and what you owe to them; how they will miss you.”

“I cannot be of much service to them.  They will soon forget me.”

“Perhaps you are mistaken there,” said Gazen, assuming a more serious air.  “In any case I for one shall miss you.  In fact, to speak plainly, I shall feel aggrieved—­hurt.  You and I are old friends, and when you asked me to join you in this expedition I was moved by friendship as well as interest.  Certainly, I never dreamed that you would desert the ship.  I thought it was understood that we should sink or swim together.  If you leave us I shan’t answer for the consequences.  I appreciate the dilemma in which you are placed, but surely friendship has a prior if a weaker claim than love-passion.  Surely you owe some allegiance to Carmichael and myself.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Only to carry out the original plan of the voyage.  Promise me that you will stick to the ship.  Afterwards you can return to Venus and do as you please.  Stanley, you know, made his greatest journey into Africa between his engagement and his marriage.”