“I don’t know that he put himself to any trouble. But he was so very fascinating that for once I forgot my own individuality in listening to his experience of life.”
“He spoke of himself?”
“Oh, yes, always. I never knew him refer much to any other—except his wife. He rarely mentioned the earth; he told me he did not find it interesting and rarely went there.”
“He found it interesting enough to go there and stir up feud sufficient for centuries, and having done that, tired of the game and tired of the plaything, he retired to hell.”
“Do you know him well?”
“In the long ages back, before the earth was peopled, we were friends. Since then,” and Virginius smiled, “he has become my son-in-law.”
“Yet now you are no longer friends.”
“On all points but one we would be friendly. Our bone of contention is the earth and planets peopled like it.”
“I did not know that his wife was one of your daughters.”
“She is my eldest daughter—Purity—the loveliest flower that even heaven ever grew. The gentlest and most innocent child that ever gladdened parents’ heart.”