"I want you to see Lylda's father," said the Chemist. "There is nothing we can do now until Lylda returns. Shall we walk up there?" They all agreed readily.
"I may go, too?" Loto asked, looking at his father.
"You have your lessons," said the Chemist.
"But, my father, it is so very lonely without mother," protested the boy.
The Chemist smiled gently. "Afraid, little son, to stay with Oteo?"
"He's not afraid," said the Very Young Man stoutly.
The little boy looked from one to the other of them a moment silently. Then, calling Oteo's name, he ran across the roof and down into the house.
"Five years ago," said the Chemist, as the child disappeared, "there was hardly such an emotion in this world as fear or hate or anger. Now the pendulum is swinging to the other extreme. I suppose that's natural, but——" He ended with a sigh, and, breaking his train of thought, rose to his feet. "Shall we start?"
Lylda's father greeted them gravely, with a dignity, and yet obvious cordiality that was quite in accord with his appearance. He was a man over sixty. His still luxuriant white hair fell to his shoulders. His face was hairless, for in this land all men's faces were as devoid of hair as those of the women. He was dressed in a long, flowing robe similar to those his visitors were wearing.
"Because—you come—I am glad," he said with a smile, as he shook hands in their own manner. He spoke slowly, with frequent pauses, as though carefully picking his words. "But—an old man—I know not the language of you."