"there never was a time when woman's intelligence was so eager and rational; never a time," bellingham went on, "when men were so tired of metals and meals and miles. the groan for the absolutely new, for the utmost in sense and the weirdest of sensations, for speed to cover distances and to overcome every obstacle, even thin air—all these express the great weariness of the flesh and make clear to the prophetic understanding that man is nearing the end of his lessons in three dimensions and five senses. there is a stirring of the spirit-captive in the worn mesh of the body."
the woman traced her name with her forefinger upon the cover of the book in her lap; again and again, "paula—paula—paula." it was a habit she had not remembered for years. as a little girl when she fought against being persuaded contrary to her will, she would hold herself in hand thus, by wriggling "paula" anywhere. all that bellingham said was artfully calculated to inspire her with hope and joy in the world. so marvelously were the words designed to carry her high in happiness, that there was a corresponding tension of terror in remembering that bellingham uttered them. yet she would have felt like a lump of clay had she not told him:
"what you say is very wonderful to me."
"and it is the women who are most sensitive to the light—women who are already unfolding in the rays, yet so far-flung and dim." bellingham's voice was a quick emotionless monotone. "perhaps you have noted the great amalgamation of clubs and classes of women which each year turns its power to more direct effort and valuable study. another thing, let the word genius be whispered about any child or youth, and he becomes at once the darling of rich matrons. what does this mean—this desire of woman to bring out the latent powers of a stranger's child? this veiled, beautiful quality is the surest sign of all. it is the spirit of rebecca—which, even in the grief for her own dead babe, turns thrillingly to mother a wayfarer's starry child. verily, when a woman begins to dream about bringing prophets into the world—the giants of those other days are close to her, crowding closer, eager to be born again."
paula turned to him and arose. his face was not kindled. it was as if he were an actor reading lines to memorize, not yet trying to simulate the contained emotions. there is a glow of countenance where fine thought-force is in action, but bellingham's face was not lit with the expiration of mind-energy, though his eyes glittered with set, bird-like brightness.
"i must hurry away now," she told him hastily. "i must think upon what you have said."
"i truly wish," he added softly, and with a kindness she felt, because her eyes were turned from him, "that you would join one of my wiser classes. you would be an inspiration. besides, the little things that have been given me to tell—should be known by the very few who have reached your degree of evolution."
"thank you," she faltered. "i must think."
"good-by, miss linster."
reaching the street in front of her apartment house, she turned just in time to see him disappear among the trees. he strode forward as if this were his world, and his days had been a continuous pageant of victories.... her rooms were all cleared of disorder, her mind refreshed and stimulated.... that night between eleven and twelve she was writing to charter. there were a half dozen penned pages before her, and a smile on her lips. she poured out a full heart to the big western figure of cleanliness and strength—wrote to the man she wanted him to be.... the day had been strange and expanding. she had suffered no evil. the thoughts remaining with her from the talk in the park were large with significance, and they had cleared slowly from the murkiness of their source. these, and the ideal of manhood she was building out of charter's book and letter and reifferscheid's little sketch of him, had made the hours rich with healing. she was tired but steady-nerved as she wrote.... there was a faint tapping at her hall-door.
