“Theos Alwyn, the English author, I presume?” interposed the monk interrogatively.

“Why, yes!” this in accents of extreme surprise—­“how did you know that!”

“Your celebrity,” politely suggested Heliobas, with a wave of the hand and an enigmatical smile that might have meant anything or nothing.

Alwyn colored a little.  “Your mistake,” he said indifferently, “I have no celebrity.  The celebrities of my country are few, and among them those most admired are jockeys and divorced women.  I merely follow in the rear-line of the art or profession of literature—­I am that always unluckiest and most undesirable kind of an author, a writer of verse—­I lay no claim, not now at any rate, to the title of poet.  While recently staying in Paris I chanced to hear of you ...”

The monk bowed ever so slightly—­there was a dawning gleam of satire in his brilliant eyes.

“You won special distinction and renown there, I believe, before you adopted this monastic life?” pursued Alwyn, glancing at him curiously.

“Did I?” and Heliobas looked cheerfully interested.  “Really I was not aware of it, I assure you!  Possibly my ways and doings may have occasionally furnished the Parisians with something to talk about instead of the weather, and I know I made some few friends and an astonishing number of enemies, if that is what you mean by distinction and renown!”

Alwyn smiled—­his smile was always reluctant, and had in it more of sadness than sweetness, yet it gave his features a singular softness and beauty, just as a ray of sunlight falling on a dark picture will brighten the tints into a momentary warmth of seeming life.

“All reputation means that, I think,” he said, “unless it be mediocre—­then one is safe; one has scores of friends, and scarce a foe.  Mediocrity succeeds wonderfully well nowadays—­nobody hates it, because every one feels how easily they themselves can attain to it.  Exceptional talent is aggressive—­actual genius is offensive; people are insulted to have a thing held up for their admiration which is entirely out of their reach.  They become like bears climbing a greased pole; they see a great name above them—­a tempting sugary morsel which they would fain snatch and devour—­ and when their uncouth efforts fail, they huddle together on the ground beneath, look up with dull, peering eyes, and impotently snarl!  But you,”—­and here his gazed rested doubtfully, yet questioningly, on his companion’s open, serene countenance—­’you, if rumor speaks truly, should have been able to tame your bears and turn them into dogs, humble and couchant!  Your marvellous achievements as a mesmerist—­”

“Excuse me!” returned Heliobas quietly, “I never was a mesmerist.”

“Well-as a spiritualist then; though I cannot admit the existence of any such thing as spiritualism.”

“Neither can I,” returned Heliobas, with perfect good-humor, “according to the generally accepted meaning of the term.  Pray go on, Mr. Alwyn!”