I got a chance at last to speak privately with him.

“Did Number Five go to meet you in your laboratory, as she talked of doing?”

“Oh, yes, of course she did,—­why, she said she would!”

“Oh, to be sure.  Do tell me what she wanted in your laboratory.”

“She wanted me to burn a diamond for her.”

“Burn a diamond!  What was that for?  Because Cleopatra swallowed a pearl?”

“No, nothing of that kind.  It was a small stone, and had a flaw in it.  Number Five said she did n’t want a diamond with a flaw in it, and that she did want to see how a diamond would burn.”

“Was that all that happened?”

“That was all.  She brought the two Annexes with her, and I gave my three visitors a lecture on carbon, which they seemed to enjoy very much.”

I looked steadily in the Professor’s face during the reading of the following poem.  I saw no questionable look upon it,—­but he has a remarkable command of his features.  Number Five read it with a certain archness of expression, as if she saw all its meaning, which I think some of the company did not quite take in.  They said they must read it slowly and carefully.  Somehow, “I like you” and “I love you” got a little mixed, as they heard it.  It was not Number Five’s fault, for she read it beautifully, as we all agreed, and as I knew she would when I handed it to her.

     I like you and I love you.

   I like you met I love you, face to face;
   The path was narrow, and they could not pass. 
   I like you smiled; I love you cried, Alas! 
   And so they halted for a little space.

  “Turn thou and go before,” I love you said,
  “Down the green pathway, bright with many a flower
   Deep in the valley, lo! my bridal bower
   Awaits thee.”  But I like you shook his head.

   Then while they lingered on the span-wide shelf
   That shaped a pathway round the rocky ledge,
   I like you bared his icy dagger’s edge,
   And first he slew I love you,—­then himself.

VII

There is no use in burdening my table with those letters of inquiry as to where our meetings are held, and what are the names of the persons designated by numbers, or spoken of under the titles of the Professor, the Tutor, and so forth.  It is enough that you are aware who I am, and that I am known at the tea-table as The Dictator.  Theatrical “asides” are apt to be whispered in a pretty loud voice, and the persons who ought not to have any idea of what is said are expected to be reasonably hard of bearing.  If I named all The Teacups, some of them might be offended.  If any of my readers happen to be able to identify any one Teacup by some accidental circumstance,—­say,