“What would be the good of gold,” he was saying, “if it did not glitter?  Why should we care for a black sovereign any more than for a black sun at noon?  A black button would do just as well.  Don’t you see that everything in this garden looks like a jewel?  And will you kindly tell me what the deuce is the good of a jewel except that it looks like a jewel?  Leave off buying and selling, and start looking!  Open your eyes, and you’ll wake up in the New Jerusalem.

“All is gold that glitters—­
Tree and tower of brass;
Rolls the golden evening air
Down the golden grass. 
Kick the cry to Jericho,
How yellow mud is sold;
All is gold that glitters,
For the glitter is the gold.”

“And who wrote that?” asked Rosamund, amused.

“No one will ever write it,” answered Smith, and cleared the rockery with a flying leap.

“Really,” said Rosamund to Michael Moon, “he ought to be sent to an asylum.  Don’t you think so?”

“I beg your pardon,” inquired Michael, rather sombrely; his long, swarthy head was dark against the sunset, and, either by accident or mood, he had the look of something isolated and even hostile amid the social extravagance of the garden.

“I only said Mr. Smith ought to go to an asylum,” repeated the lady.

The lean face seemed to grow longer and longer, for Moon was unmistakably sneering.  “No,” he said; “I don’t think it’s at all necessary.”

“What do you mean?” asked Rosamund quickly.  “Why not?”

“Because he is in one now,” answered Michael Moon, in a quiet but ugly voice.  “Why, didn’t you know?”

“What?” cried the girl, and there was a break in her voice; for the Irishman’s face and voice were really almost creepy.  With his dark figure and dark sayings in all that sunshine he looked like the devil in paradise.

“I’m sorry,” he continued, with a sort of harsh humility.  “Of course we don’t talk about it much... but I thought we all really knew.”

“Knew what?”

“Well,” answered Moon, “that Beacon House is a certain rather singular sort of house—­a house with the tiles loose, shall we say?  Innocent Smith is only the doctor that visits us; hadn’t you come when he called before?  As most of our maladies are melancholic, of course he has to be extra cheery.  Sanity, of course, seems a very bumptious eccentric thing to us.  Jumping over a wall, climbing a tree—­that’s his bedside manner.”

“You daren’t say such a thing!” cried Rosamund in a rage.  “You daren’t suggest that I—­”

“Not more than I am,” said Michael soothingly; “not more than the rest of us.  Haven’t you ever noticed that Miss Duke never sits still—­a notorious sign?  Haven’t you ever observed that Inglewood is always washing his hands—­ a known mark of mental disease?  I, of course, am a dipsomaniac.”

“I don’t believe you,” broke out his companion, not without agitation.  “I’ve heard you had some bad habits—­”