ed with my uncle you will have made your decision.
Look at me, please."

He looked at her. Just then the nightingale began to sing again, and
curiously enough it seemed to him that a different note had crept into
the bird's song. It was a cry for life, an absolutely pagan note, which
came to him through the velvety darkness.

"Isn't it your theory," she whispered, "to destroy for the sake of the
future? Don't do it. Theory sometimes sounds so sublime, but the
present is actually here. Be content to work piecemeal, to creep
upwards inch by inch. Life is something, you know. Life is something
for all of us. No man has the right to destroy it for others. He has
not even the right to destroy it for himself."

Maraton was suddenly almost giddy. For a moment he had relaxed and that
moment was illuminating. Perhaps she saw the fire which leapt into his
eyes. If she did, she never quailed. Her head was within a few inches
of his, his arms almost touching her. She saw but she never moved. If
anything, she drew a little nearer.

"Speak to me," she begged. "Give me some promise, some hope."

He was absolutely speechless. A wave of reminiscence had carried him
back into the study, face to face with an accuser. He read meaning in
Julia's words now, a meaning which at the time they had not possessed.
It was true that he was being tempted. It was true that there was such
a thing in the world as temptation, a live thing to the strong as well
as to the weak.

"You could be great," she murmured. "You could be a statesman of whom
we should all be proud. In years to come, people would understand, they
would know that you had chosen the nobler part. And then for
yourself--"

"For myself," he interrupted, "for myself--what?"

Her lips parted and closed again. She looked at him very steadily.

"Don't you think," she asked quietly, "that you are, more than most men,
the builder of your own life, the master of your own fate, the
conqueror--if, indeed, you desired to possess?"

She was gone, disappearing through a winding path amongst the bushes
which he had never noticed. He heard the trailing of her skirts; the
air around him was empty save for a breath of the perfume shaken from
her gown, and the song of the bird. Then he heard her call to him.

"This way, Mr. Maraton--just a little to your left. The path leads
right out on to the lawn."

"Is it a maze?" he asked.

"A very ordinary one," she called back gaily. "Follow me and I