"Say what you will," the soft, even voice persisted, "I can read your
eyes and they are telling me. Don't believe him; he lies," he went on to
Olga. "He dreams of her--you--every night and you of him, and he knows
it and you know it. Ah, I understand the language of your eyes. No
matter what you say, that little love light in your eyes discredits you,
reveals your inmost thoughts, and I read them through."

"Let me speak," Karl pleaded. "For six years we have lived quietly in
peace, good friends, nothing else. Olga has not the least interest in
me, and I--I am quite, quite indifferent."

"Any one who thinks Karl capable of a base thought must be base and
contemptible himself," Olga cried.

The two were almost hysterical as they stood beside each other, warding
off the evil that seemed to emanate from the mysterious person who
towered over them from the pulpit-backed chair. Karl held Olga's right
hand in his; his left hand was on her shoulder protectingly. Millar
spoke quickly, leaning far down toward them:

"It is not a base thought; it is a beautiful thought, a thought shedding
happiness, warmth and joy upon your otherwise miserable lives. But
happiness, warmth and joy have a price that must be paid. He who loves
wine too well will go to a drunkard's grave, but while he is drunk with
wine angels sing to him.

"Whatever the price, his happiness is cheaply bought. The poet sings his
greatest song when he is about to die, and is a poor, weak, human mortal
to live without wine and song and women's lips? A little stump of a
candle shines its brightest ere it goes out forever. It should teach you
that one glow of warmth is worth all this life can give. Life has no
object but to be thrown away. It must end; let us end it well. Let our
raging passions set fire to everything about us, burning, burning,
burning until we ourselves are reduced to ashes. Those who pretend
otherwise are hypocrites and liars."

The two listened spellbound to this amazing sermon of sin. Karl's arm
slipped down to Olga's waist. He felt himself drawing her closer to him.

"Don't be a liar," Millar urged, his eyes still burning into them;
"don't be a hypocrite. Be a rascal, but be a pleasant rascal and the
world is yours. Look at me; all the world is mine, and what I have told
you is the honest confession of all the world. We are baptized, not with
water, but with fire. Love yourself; only yourself; wear the softest
garments, sip the sweetest wine