"Are you preaching to them?" asked Athalie, raising her eyes from the green god in her palm.
"No matter where a man turns his eyes," said I, "they may not long remain undisturbed by the vision of gold. I was not preaching, Athalie; I was reflecting upon my poverty."
"It is an incurable ailment," said somebody; "the millionaire knows it; the gods themselves suffered from it. From the bleaching carcass of the peon to the mausoleum of the emperor, the world's highway winds through its victims' graves."
"Athalie," said I, "is it possible for you to look into your crystal and discover hidden treasure?"
"Not for my own benefit."
"For others?"
"I have done it."
"Could you locate a few millions for us?" inquired the novelist.
"Yes, widely distributed among you. Your right hand is heavy as gold; your brain jingles with it."
"I do not write for money," he said bluntly.