," she said. "It is we who are mad, to listen a
little, to think a little, to play a little with the thoughts he gives
us."

"I know of Naudheim only by reputation," Rochester said. "And so far
as regards Saton, nothing will convince me that he is not an
impostor."

She sighed.

"There may be something of the charlatan in his methods," she said,
"but there is something else. Henry, why can't we be content with the
things that we know and see and feel?"

He smiled bitterly.

"I am," he answered. "I thank God that I have none of that insane
desire for probing and dissecting nature to discover things which we
are not fit yet to understand, if, even, they do exist. It's a sort of
spiritual vivisection, Pauline, and it can bring nothing but disquiet
and unhappiness. Grant for a moment that Naudheim, and that even this
bounder Saton, are honest, what possible good can it do you or me to
hang upon their lips, to become their disciples?"

"Oh, I don't know!" she answered. "Yet it's hideously fascinating,
Henry--hideously! And the man himself--Bertrand Saton. I can't tell
what there is about him. I only know----"

She broke off in the middle of her sentence. Rochester caught her by
the wrist.

"Pauline," he said, "for God's sake, don't tell me that that fellow
has dared to make love to you."

"I don't know," she answered. "Sometimes I hate the very sight of him.
Sometimes I feel almost as you do. And at others, well, I can't
explain it. It isn't any use trying."

"Pauline," he said, "you see for yourself the state to which you have
been reduced this afternoon. Tell me, is there happiness in being
associated with any science or any form of knowledge the study of
which upsets you so completely? There are better things in life.
Forget this wretched little man, and his melodramatic talk."

"If only I could!" she murmured.

They sat side by side in silence. Strong man though he was, Rochester
was struggling fiercely with the wave of passionate anger which had
swept in upon him. For years he had treated this woman as his dearest
friend. The love which was a part of his life lay deep down in his
heart, a thing with the seal of silence set upon it, zealously
treasured, in its very voicelessness a splendid oblation to the man's
chivalry. And now this unmentionable creature, this Frankenstein of
his own creation, the boy whom he had pitchforked into life, had dared
to be guilty of this unspeakable sacrilege. It was hard,