From the crowd of quarrelling ghosts a new figure detached itself, and in its approach it subdued that vague vanishing which had been so perplexing to Clorinda. Out of the crowd it slipped, and loomed lovingly beside her, took up her thought and the interrogation that came into her mind.
"No," it said gravely, "there is none greater than these. The ultimate reaches of man's mind produce nothing but images of men."
"But," said Clorinda, "do you mean that our ideals, previsions of a vita-nuova...."
"Just so," it continued, "a mere intoxication. Even here you cannot escape the singular dower of dreams ... you can be drunk with dreams more easily and more permanently than with drugs."
The group of husbands had ceased their quarrelling to listen; Clorinda swept them with her glances thoughtfully and doubtfully.
"Could mankind be so poor," the angel resumed, "as poor as these, if it housed something greater than itself?"
With a groan the group of outworn husbands drew away. Clorinda turned to her companion with disappointment and some dismay ... "I hardly understand yet ... is this all then just...."
"Yes," it replied, "just the ghost of the world."
She turned unhappily and looked back across the gateway into the fair combe with its cattle, its fine grass, and the man working diligently therein. A sense of bleak loneliness began to possess her; here, then, was no difference save that there were no correlations, no consequences; nothing had any effect except to produce the ghost of a ghost. There was already in the hinterland of her apprehensions a ghost of her new ghostship: she was to be followed by herself, pursued by figures of her own ceaseless being!
She looked at the one by her side: "Who are you?" she asked, and at the question the group of men drew again very close to them.