"Who is Madame—What-is-it?"
"You never even heard of her!" he exclaimed, in affected astonishment. "Madame Mikucsek—the discoverer of the Mystery of the East—the Prophetess of the New Religion—who has her followers and disciples all over the world—from Syria to the Himalayas—from New York to Sacramento. Really, aunt, you surprise me: you will be saying next you never heard of Bô."
"What is Bô—or who is he?" she demanded, impatiently.
"Bô," he repeated, as if he were too puzzled by her appalling ignorance to be able to explain, "why, Bô—Bô is the equivalent of the Chinese Tá. It is the principle of life; it is the beginning and the end of all things; it is the condition of the soul—and yet not quite the condition of the soul, for the soul can live outside Bô until the miracle of initiation happens. Then the soul is received into Bô, and finds that the present is non-existent, and that only the past and the future exist, the future being really the past, when once the soul has entered Bô—"
"Vin, I believe you are making a fool of me," the pretty Mrs. Ellison said, severely.
"Oh, I assure you, aunt," he said, with eyes innocent of guile, "it is the great discovery of the age—the great discovery of all time—the Sacred—the Ineffable. When you enter into Bô you lose your individuality—or rather, you never had any individuality—for individuality was a confusion of thought, a product of the present, and the present, as I have explained to you, my dear aunt, ceases to exist when you have entered Bô. Did I tell you that Bô is sentient? Yes, but yet not a being; though there are manifestations, mysterious and ecstatic; and the disciples write to each other on the first day of each month, and tell each other what trances they have been in, and what spiritual joy they have received. These reports are sent to Madame Mikucsek; and they are published in a journal that circulates among the initiated; but the phraseology is hieratic, the outside world could make nothing of it. As for her, she is not expected to reveal anything—what she experiences transcends human speech, and even human thought—"
"I saw the woman mopping up gravy with a piece of bread," said Mrs. Ellison, with frowning eyebrows.
"Bô," continued the young man, very seriously, "as far as I have been able to make it out, consists of a vast sphere; elliptical, however: the zenith containing all human aspiration, the base consisting of forgotten evil. When you once enter this magic circle, you are lost, you are transformed, you are here and yet not here; to be does not signify to be but not to be; and not to be is the highest good except not to have been. Bô, when once you have received the consecration, and bathed in the light, and perceived the altitudes and the essential deeps and cognisances—"
"Ought to be written Bosh," said she, briefly. "I will not hear any more of that nonsense. And I believe you are only humbugging me: Madame What's-her-name looks more like the widow of a French Communist. Now listen to me, Vin, for I am going away to-morrow. I am glad I was mistaken about the actress; but take care; don't get into scrapes. I shan't be happy till I see you married. Ordinarily a man should not marry until he is thirty or five-and-thirty—if he is five-and-forty so much the better—but even at five-and-thirty, he may have acquired a little judgment; he may be able to tell how much honesty there is in the extreme amiability and unselfishness and simplicity that a young woman can assume, or whether she is likely to turn out an ill-conditioned, cross-grained, and sulking brute. Oh, you needn't laugh: it's no laughing matter, as you'll find out, my young friend. But you—you are different; you are no schoolboy; you've seen the world—too much of it, for you've learnt disrespect for your elders, and try to bamboozle them with accounts of sham systems of philosophy or religion or whatever it is. I say you ought to marry young; but not an elderly woman, as many a young man does, for money or position. Good gracious, no! You'll have plenty of money; your father isn't just yet going to sell this silver dinner-service—which I detest, for it always looks more greasy than china, and besides you feel as if you were scoring it with the edge of your knife all the time—I say he isn't going to sell his silver and distribute unto the poor just yet. As for position, you've got to make that for yourself: would you owe it to your wife? Very well," proceeded his pretty monitress, in her easy and prattling fashion; "come down to Brighton for a week or two. I will ask the Drexel girls; you will have them all to yourself, to pick and choose from, but Louie is my favourite. You have no idea how delightful Brighton is in June—the inland drives are perfect, so cool and shaded with trees, when you know where to go, that is. If you come down I'll make up a party and take you all to Ascot: Mrs. Bourke has offered me her house for the week—isn't that good-natured, when she could easily have let it?—and I have to telegraph yes or no to-morrow. I hadn't intended going myself; but if you say you will come down, I will accept; and I know I can get the Drexel girls."
"It is so kind of you, aunt; so very kind," he said; "but I really can't get away. You know I don't care much about racing—