I gasped.  If this were true, this wonderful collection must contain my own complete works, some of which I have doubtless not even thought of as yet.  How easy it would be for me, I thought, to write my future books if Jupiter would only let me loose here with a competent stenographer to copy off the pages of manuscript as yet undreamed of!  I suggested this to the Major Domo.

“He wouldn’t let you,” he said.  “It would throw the whole scheme out of gear.”

“I don’t see why,” I ventured.

“It is simple,” rejoined the Major Domo.  “If you were permitted to read the books that some day will be identified with your name, as a sensible man, observing beforehand how futile and trivial they are to be, some of them, you wouldn’t write them, and so you would be able to avoid a part, at least, of your destiny.  If mortals were able to do that—­well, they’d become immortals, a good many of them.”

I realized the justice of this precaution, and we passed on in silence.

“Now,” said the Major Domo, after we had traversed the length of the library, “we are almost there.  That gorgeous door directly ahead of you is the entrance to Jupiter’s reception-room.  Before we enter, however, we must step into the office of Midas, on the left.”

“Midas?” I said.  “And what, pray, is his function?  Is he the registrar?”

“No, indeed,” laughed the Major Domo.  “I presume down where you live he would be called the Court Tailor.  The sartorial requirements of Jupiter are so regal that none of his guests, invited or otherwise, could afford, even with the riches of Cr[oe]sus, to purchase the apparel which he demands.  Hence he keeps Midas here to supply, at his expense, the garments in which his visitors may appear before him.  You didn’t think you were going into Jupiter’s presence in those golf duds, did you?”

“I never thought anything about it,” said I.  “But how long will it take Midas to fit me out?”

“He touches your garments, that’s all,” said my guide, “and in that instant they are changed to robes of richest gold.  We then place a necklace of gems about your neck, composed of rubies, emeralds, amethysts, and sapphires, alternating with pearls, none smaller than a hen’s egg; next we place a jewelled staff of ebony in your hand; a golden helmet, having at either side the burnished wings of the imperial eagles of Jove, and bearing upon its crest an opal that glistens like the sun through the slight haze of a translucent cloud, will be placed upon your head; richly decorated sandals of cloth of gold will adorn your feet, and about your waist a girdle of linked diamonds—­beside which the far-famed Orloff diamond of the Russian treasury is an insignificant bit of glass—­will be clasped.”

“And—­wha—­wha—­what becomes of all this when I get back home?” I gasped, a vision of future ease rising before my tired eyes.

“You take it with you, if you can,” laughed the Major Domo, with a sly wink at one of the Amazons who accompanied him as a sort of aide.