I had made a goddess of Nettie, and behold she was a fellow-creature!  She came, warm-wrapped and tremulous, to me, with the tender promise of tears in her eyes, with her hands outstretched and that dear smile quivering upon her lips.  She stepped out of the dream I had made of her, a thing of needs and regrets and human kindliness.  Her hands as I took them were a little cold.  The goddess shone through her indeed, glowed in all her body, she was a worshipful temple of love for me—­yes.  But I could feel, like a thing new discovered, the texture and sinews of her living, her dear personal and mortal hands. . . .

THE EPILOGUE

THE WINDOW OF THE TOWER

This was as much as this pleasant-looking, gray-haired man had written.  I had been lost in his story throughout the earlier portions of it, forgetful of the writer and his gracious room, and the high tower in which he was sitting.  But gradually, as I drew near the end, the sense of strangeness returned to me.  It was more and more evident to me that this was a different humanity from any I had known, unreal, having different customs, different beliefs, different interpretations, different emotions.  It was no mere change in conditions and institutions the comet had wrought.  It had made a change of heart and mind.  In a manner it had dehumanized the world, robbed it of its spites, its little intense jealousies, its inconsistencies, its humor.  At the end, and particularly after the death of his mother, I felt his story had slipped away from my sympathies altogether.  Those Beltane fires had burnt something in him that worked living still and unsubdued in me, that rebelled in particular at that return of Nettie.  I became a little inattentive.  I no longer felt with him, nor gathered a sense of complete understanding from his phrases.  His Lord Eros indeed!  He and these transfigured people—­they were beautiful and noble people, like the people one sees in great pictures, like the gods of noble sculpture, but they had no nearer fellowship than these to men.  As the change was realized, with every stage of realization the gulf widened and it was harder to follow his words.

I put down the last fascicle of all, and met his friendly eyes.  It was hard to dislike him.

I felt a subtle embarrassment in putting the question that perplexed me.  And yet it seemed so material to me I had to put it.  “And did you—?” I asked.  “Were you—­lovers?”

His eyebrows rose.  “Of course.”

“But your wife—?”

It was manifest he did not understand me.

I hesitated still more.  I was perplexed by a conviction of baseness.  “But—­” I began.  “You remained lovers?”

“Yes.”  I had grave doubts if I understood him.  Or he me.

I made a still more courageous attempt.  “And had Nettie no other lovers?”

“A beautiful woman like that!  I know not how many loved beauty in her, nor what she found in others.  But we four from that time were very close, you understand, we were friends, helpers, personal lovers in a world of lovers.”