would have burst forth
along its normal lines. As they merely taught you the alphabet and
grammar, your creative faculty turned to literature; you wrote romances
full of music, instead of composing music full of romance. It is a
distinction without a difference. But, now that you have found your
mislaid 'cello, and I am teaching you to KNOW YOURSELF, you will do
both."

Ronald stared across at Aubrey. His head was throbbing. Every moment he
seemed to become more certain that he had indeed, many times before,
held the Infant of Prague between his knees.

But there was a weird, uncanny feeling in the room. Helen seemed to walk
in, to seat herself in the empty chair; and, leaning forward, to look
at him steadily, with her clear earnest eyes. She seemed to repeat
impressively: "Aubrey is not a good man, Ronnie. He is not a man you
should trust."

"Well?" asked Aubrey, at last. "Do you recognise the truth?"

Then, with an effort, Ronnie answered as he believed Helen would have
answered; and her face beside him seemed to smile approval.

"It sounds a plausible theory," he said slowly; "it may possibly be a
truth. But it is not a truth required by us now. Our obvious duty in the
present is to live this life out to its fullest and best, regarding it
as a time of preparation for the next."

Aubrey's thin lips framed the word "Rubbish!" but, checking it
unuttered, substituted: "Quite right. This existence _is_ a preparation
for the next; just as that which preceded was a preparation for this."

Then Ronnie ceased to express Helen, and gave vent to an idea of his
own.

"It would make a jolly old muddle of all our relationships," he said.

"Not at all," replied Aubrey. "It merely readjusts them, compensating
for disappointments in the present, by granting us the assurance of past
possessions, and the expectation of future enjoyment. In the life which
preceded this, Helen was probably _my_ wife, while _you_ were a
beautiful old person in diamond shoe-buckles, knee-breeches, and old
lace, who played the 'cello at our wedding."

"Confound you!" cried Ronnie, in sudden fury, springing up and swinging
the 'cello above his head, as if about to bring it down, with a crashing
blow, upon Aubrey. "Damned old shoe-buckle yourself! Helen was never
your wife! More likely you blacked her boots and mine!"

"Oh, hush!" smiled Aubrey, in contemptuous amusement. "Excellent young
men who make innocent love in rose-gardens, never say 'dam