“How ridic”—­Mr. Vilas triumphed over the word after a slight struggle—­“ulous!  I shall review that:  ridiculous of you to pretend to be interested in oil-fields.  You are not that sort of person whatever.  Nothing could be clearer than that you would never waste the time demanded by fields of oil.  Groundlings call this `the mechanical age’—­a vulgar error.  My dear sir, you and I know that it is the age of Woman!  Even poets have begun to see that she is alive.  Formerly we did not speak of her at all, but of late years she has become such a scandal that she is getting talked about.  Even our dramas, which used to be all blood, have become all flesh.  I wish I were dead—­but will continue my harangue because the thought is pellucid.  Women selecting men to mate with are of only two kinds, just as there are but two kinds of children in a toy-shop.  One child sets its fancy on one partic”—­the orator paused, then continued—­“on one certain toy and will make a distressing scene if she doesn’t get it:  she will have that one; she will go straight to it, clasp it and keep it; she won’t have any other.  The other kind of woman is to be understood if you will make the experiment of taking the other kind of child to a toy-shop and telling her you will buy her any toy in the place, but that you will buy her only one.  If you do this in the morning, she will still be in the shop when it is closing for the night, because, though she runs to each toy in turn with excitement and delight, she sees another over her shoulder, and the one she has not touched is always her choice—­until she has touched it!  Some get broken in the handling.  For my part, my wires are working rather rustily, but I must obey the Stage-Manager.  For my requiem I wish somebody would ask them to play Gounod’s masterpiece.”

“What’s that?” asked Corliss, amused.

“`The Funeral March of a Marionette!’”

“I suppose you mean that for a cheerful way of announcing that you are a fatalist.”

“Fatalism?  That is only a word,” declared Mr. Vilas gravely.  “If I am not a puppet then I am a god.  Somehow, I do not seem to be a god.  If a god is a god, one thinks he would know it himself.  I now yield the floor.  Thanking you cordially, I believe there is a lady walking yonder who commands salutation.”

He rose to his feet, bowing profoundly.  Cora Madison was passing, strolling rather briskly down the street, not in the direction of her home.  She waved her parasol with careless gayety to the trio under the trees, and, going on, was lost to their sight.

“Hello!” exclaimed Corliss, looking at his watch with a start of surprise.  “I have two letters to write for the evening mail.  I must be off.”

At this, Ray Vilas’s eyes—­still fixed upon him, as they had been throughout the visit—­opened to their fullest capacity, in a gaze of only partially alcoholic wildness.

Entirely aware of this singular glare, but not in the least disconcerted by it, the recipient proffered his easy farewells.  “I had no idea it was so late.  Good afternoon.  Mr. Vilas, I have been delighted with your diagnosis.  Lindley, I’m at your disposal when you’ve looked over my data.  My very warm thanks for your patience, and—­addio!”