closing again on an illuminating apparition. It
was Botticellina, draped in a flowing robe, of the
color of the moonlight. Her floating hair shone
around her like artificial fire. In her hand she
held a golden key. An ecstasy was on her lips,
and the night-sky in her eyes. John-Giotto rushed
forward, and disappeared behind the drapery.
Then Frederic-Ossian Pinggleton lay down again on
the triple row of cushions, of the color of sea-weed.
And, while he buried his nails in his flesh, and
while the blood streamed from him as from a fountain, the golden algæ, now scarcely visible, gently quivered upon the wall, which was gradually taking on a coating of darkness. And the heart-
shaped palette and the lyre-shaped easel resounded
long and long, in nuptial songs.'
For some moments Kimberly was silent; then, while the emotion that prevailed around the table was choking throats and compressing hearts, he concluded:
And this is why I have dipped the point of my golden knife in the preserves prepared by kanaka virgins in honor of a betrothal more magnificent than any that our century, in its ignorance of beauty, has ever known."
The dinner was over. They rose from the table in religious silence, but thrilled through and through. In the salon Kimberly was closely surrounded and warmly congratulated. The looks of
