Austin delighted in symbolism, and these apparent paradoxes fascinated him.  But was it all true?  He loved to think that life was the shadow, and death—­what we call death—­the substance; he had always felt that the reality of everything was to be sought for on the other side.  But he could not see why departed souls should be regarded as the shadows of living men.  Rather it was we who lived in a vain show, and would continue to do so until the spirit, the true substance of us, should be set free.  Well, whatever the truth of it might be, it was all a charming puzzle, and we should learn all about it some day, and meantime he had been furnished with an entirely new idea—­the revealing power of darkness.  He loved the light because it was beautiful, and now he loved the darkness because it was mysterious, and held such wondrous secrets in its folds.  He had never been afraid of the dark even when a child.  It had always been associated in his mind with sleep and dreams, and he was very fond of both.

Of course it would have been no use attempting to instruct Lubin in the cryptic properties of the quincunx, or any other theories of garden arrangement propounded by Sir Thomas Browne.  And Aunt Charlotte would have proved a still more hopeless subject.  She had no head for mysticism, poor dear, and Austin often told her she was one of the greatest sceptics he had ever known.  “You believe in nothing but your dinner, your bank-book, and your Bible, auntie; I declare it’s perfectly shocking,” he said to her one day.  “And a very good creed too,” she replied; “it wouldn’t be a bad thing for you either, if you had a little more sound religion and practical common-sense.”  Just now it was the bank-book phase that was uppermost, and when a letter was brought in to her at breakfast-time next morning bearing the London postmark, she clutched it eagerly and opened it with evident anticipation.  But as she read the contents her brow clouded and her face fell.  Clearly she was disappointed and surprised, but made no remark to Austin.

A couple of days passed without anything of importance happening, except that she wrote again to her bankers and looked out anxiously for their reply.  But none came, and she grew irritable and disturbed.  It really was most extraordinary; she had always thought that bankers were so shrewd, and prompt, and business-like, and yet here they were, treating her as though she were of no account whatever, and actually leaving her second letter without an answer.  The affair was pressing, too.  There was certain to be a perfect rush for shares in so exceptional an undertaking, and when once they were all allotted, of course up they’d go to an enormous premium, and all her chances of investing would be lost.  It was too exasperating for words.  What were the men thinking of?  Why were they so neglectful of her interests?  She had always been an excellent customer, and had never overdrawn her account—­never.  And now they were leaving her in the lurch.  However, she determined she would not submit.  She fumed in silence for yet another day, and then, at dinner in the evening, came out with a most unexpected declaration.