“My son, my son!” he cried, joyfully; “my life has not been spent in vain if I have succeeded in joining one such modern intellect to that noble band of sages who, though of the past, are ever in the present. And you, too, my daughter,” he continued, turning to Inez—“you, too, have sipped the draught our friend speaks of; you, too, are linked irrevocably to the wisdom of the ages.”
Inez bowed her head as if receiving a benediction.
“I have tasted of it, father,” she replied, seriously, “but only in degree. This experience is one which can never be forgotten, can never be repeated. I feel as if I were saying good-bye to friends dear and true whom I shall never see again.”
Armstrong looked at her curiously.
“I do not understand,” he said. “Why should you ever say good-bye?”
Inez tried to smile, but her attempt ended in a pitiful failure.
“There is nothing very strange about it,” she continued. “You and I drifted into this work together almost by accident. To me it has been a happy accident, and I like to think that I have helped a little in your splendid achievement. It has been an experience of a lifetime, but, like most experiences which are worth anything, it could never happen again.”
Armstrong failed utterly to grasp the significance of her words.
“Of course not, unless you wished it so,” he said.
“Not even though I wished it,” replied Inez, firmly.