"It doesn't smell like the other when you evaporate it," I said, with returning suspicion.
"It's all right, Ted. I added an aromatic oil to it to throw curious people off the track—we haven't got our patent yet, and the world's a rough place, Ted."
"I hope you haven't ruined it," I exclaimed, much angered. One of the curses of his work was the fact that he never allowed a formula to be finished, but was always adding, adding to it.
"Perfectly harmless, Ted. Just a pleasant smell—that's all."
He poured some more into a shallow Meissen dish and placed it over the sand-bath flame.
"Watch it, Ted. The crystals are long and needlelike when it evaporates down. It's easy to analyse then."
I sat over it in my excitement, with the pleasant smelling fumes now and then blowing in my face. The hawk-like countenance of Prospero peered over my shoulder.
Why was he wearing a magician's robe, I wondered, with stars of gold and signs of the Zodiac upon it? Was it drink that made his eyes shine with blue fire? Opposite me Helen was standing, dressed in mediaeval costume, her hair flowing, violets trailing everywhere about her. I tried to speak to her, and to take her hand, and could not, even when she smiled. I wanted to tell her that Milton's epithet about the violet was true—"the glowing violet"—there they were glowing like the liquid in a test tube, or like the philosopher's stone, which was it?
Then I knew no more.