Mr. Procter hesitated but a moment, then, "Come, Mr. Massey," he said, "take your place. Let us see what the machine says of you. Remember, please, it will register only your truest meaning, the purpose for which you were born; the part of you which never dies, which is never really submerged, regardless of a turning to false gods."
A little uneasy despite himself, Mr. Massey seated himself before the machine.
The inventor touched levers, opened and shut doors, lowered the helmet, adjusted the lens.
As the clicking sound commenced Mr. Massey stirred. "Keep very quiet," said the inventor, "and watch the glass plate."
Mr. Massey obeyed. Now a satiric smile touched his lips. He was almost enjoying this child's play.
But soon the smile faded, for in a moment there grew upon the glass plate standing between the two tubes a pillar of color, vivid yellow, tipped with primrose.
"What—what does that mean?" asked old John Massey.
The inventor lifted the helmet, and shut off his power before speaking. "According to my belief, my understanding of color significance, the reason for your being in this world, with, of course, interesting variations brought about by environment and education, is identical with that of Reynolds."
Mr. Massey started forward angrily, but he thought better of whatever he had in his heart to say. "Go on," he commanded gruffly.
"As a young man you had dreams of being a practical humanitarian," said Mr. Procter softly, "and undoubtedly with your opportunity you might have been a valuable figure in the world. You were endowed with vision. You saw the wrongs man labors under; as a youth you smarted because of those wrongs. And you saw the super-being man might become given equal chances."