He laughed, and the luncheon being concluded, he rose from the table, and taking an easy-chair nearer the window, motioned Alwyn to do the same.
"I want to talk to you"—he continued, "We may not meet again for years,—you are entering on a difficult career, and a few hints from one who knows and thoroughly understands your position may possibly be of use to you. In the first place, then, let me ask you, have you told any one, save me, the story of your Ardath adventure?"
"One friend only,—my old school comrade, Frank Villiers"—replied
Alwyn.
"And what does he say about it?"
"Oh, he thinks it was a dream from beginning to end,"—and Alwyn smiled a little,—"He believes that I set out on my journey with my brain already heated to an imaginative excess, and that the whole thing, even my Angel's presence, was a pure delusion of my own overwrought fancy,—a curious and wonderful delusion, but always a delusion."
"He is a very excellent fellow to judge you so leniently"—observed
Heliobas composedly, "Most people would call you mad."
"Mad!" exclaimed Alwyn hotly—"Why, I am as sane as any man in London!"
"Saner, I should say,"—replied Heliobas, smiling,—"Compared with some of the eminently 'practical' speculating maniacs that howl and struggle among the fluctuating currents of the Stock Exchange, for instance, you are indeed a marvel of sound and wholesome mental capability! But let us view the matter coolly. You must not expect such an exceptional experience as yours to be believed in by ordinary persons. Because the majority of people, being utterly UNspiritual and worldly, have NO such experiences, and they therefore deem them impossible;—they are the gold-fish born in a bowl, who have no consciousness of the existence of an ocean. Moreover, you have no proofs of the truth of your narrative, beyond the change in your own life and disposition,—and that can be easily referred to various other causes. You spoke of having gathered one of the miracle-flowers on the Prophet's field,—may I see it?"
Silently Alwyn drew from his breast-pocket the velvet case in which he always kept the cherished blossom, and taking it tenderly out, placed it in his companion's hand.
"An immortelle"—said Heliobas softly, while the flower, uncurling its silvery petals in the warmth of his palm, opened star-like and white as snow. "An immortelle, rare and possibly unique!—that is all the world would say of it! It cannot be matched,—it will not fade,—true! but you will get no one to believe that! Frown not, good Poet!—I want you to consider me for the moment a practical worldling, bent on driving you from the spiritual position yon have taken up,—and you will see how necessary it is for you to keep the secret of your own enlightenment to yourself, or at least only hint at it through the parables of poesy."