him by Julian’s confession.  He knew that well.  He protected his friend now without effort.  Could he not protect him more certainly with effort?  Can a soul be beautiful that never strives consciously after beauty?  A child’s nature is beautiful in its innocence because it has never striven to be innocent.  But is not an innocent woman more wonderful, more beautiful, than an innocent child?  Valentine felt within him that night a distinct aspiration, and he vaguely connected it with the drooping Christ, who touched with wan, rewarding lips the ardent face of the merciful knight.  And he no longer had the desire to know desire of sin.  He no longer sought to understand the power of temptation or the joy of yielding to that power.  A subtle change swept over him.  Whether it was permanent, or only passing, he could not tell.

A tingling cry from the electric bell in the passage told of Julian’s arrival, and in a moment he entered.  He looked gay, almost rowdy, and clapped Valentine on the shoulder rather boisterously.

“Why on earth are you in here?” he exclaimed.  “Have you been playing?”

“No.”

“Are you in an exalted state of mind, that demands the best parlour for its environment?”

“Hardly.”

“But why then have you let out the fire in the den and enthroned yourself here?”

“A whim, Julian.  I felt a strong inclination to sit in this room to-night.  It seems to me a less nervous room than the other, and I want to be as cold-blooded as possible.”

“O, I see!  But, my dear fellow, what is there nervous about the tent?  Do you imagine ghosts lurking in the hangings, or phantoms of dead Arabs clinging, like bats, round that rosette in the roof?  You got it up the Nile, didn’t you?”

“Yes.  Where have you been?”

“Dining out.  And, oddly enough, I met Marr again, the man I told you about.  It seems he is in universal request just now.”

“On account of his mystery-mongering, I suppose.”

“Probably.”

“Did you tell him anything about our sitting?”

“Only that we had sat, and that nothing had happened.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ’Pooh, pooh! these processes are, and always must be, gradual.  Another time there may be some manifestation.’”

“Manifestation!  Did you ask him of what nature the manifestation was likely to be?  These people are so vague in the terms they employ.”

“Yes, I asked him; but I couldn’t get much out of him.  I must tell you, Val, that he seemed curiously doubtful about my statement that nothing had happened.  I can’t think why.  He said, ‘Are you quite sure?’”

“Of course you answered Yes?”

“Of course.”

Valentine looked at him for a moment and then said: 

“You didn’t mention the—­the curtain by any chance?”

“No.  You thought you had left it only partially drawn, didn’t you?”