g,
toe-joint snapping, fortune-telling, or the vending of charms. Magic,
too, is an art--like other arts. This is forgotten by the majority of
its practitioners. Hence the sordid vulgarity of the average mind-reader
and humbugging spiritualist of the dark-chamber seance. Besides, the
study of the super-normal mind tells us of the mind in health--nature is
shy in revealing her secrets."

They passed the lake and were turning toward the east driveway. Suddenly
she stopped and under the faint starlight regarded her companion
earnestly. He had not been without adventures in his career--Paris
always provided them in plenty; but this encounter with a homely woman
piqued him. Her eye he felt was upon him and her voice soothing.

"Mr. Baldur--listen! Since Milton wrote his great poem the
English-speaking people are all devil-worshippers, for Satan is the hero
of Paradise Lost. But I am no table-tipping medium eager for your
applause or your money. I don't care for money. I think you know enough
of me through the newspapers to vouchsafe that. You are rich, and it is
your chief misery. Listen! Whether you believe it or not, you are very
unhappy. Let me read your horoscope. Your club life bores you; you are
tired of our silly theatres; no longer do you care for Wagner's music.
You are deracinated; you are unpatriotic. For that there is no excuse.
The arts are for you deadly. I am sure you are a lover of literature.
Yet what a curse it has been for you! When you see one of your friends
drinking wine, you call him a fool because he is poisoning himself. But
you--you--poison your spirit with the honey of France, of Scandinavia,
of Russia. As for the society of women--"

"The Eternal Womanly!" he sneered.

"The Eternal Simpleton, you mean. In _that_ swamp of pettiness, idiocy,
and materialism, a man of your nature could not long abide. Religion--it
has not yet responded to your need. And without faith your sins lose
their savour. The arts--you don't know them all, the Seven Deadly Arts
and the One Beautiful Art!" She paused. Her voice had been as the sound
of delicate flutes. He was aflame.

"Is there, then, an eighth art?" he quickly asked.

"Would you know it if you saw it?"

"Of course. Where is it, what is it?"

She laughed and took his arm.

"Why did you look at me in church?"

"Because--it was mere chance--no, it may have been the odour of iris. I
am mad over perfume. I think it a neglected art, degraded to the
func