“I 'm glad,” said Stellamaris. Then she checked herself. “No, I can't be. I 'm dreadfully sorry.” The little lines of complexity knit themselves on her brow. “It 's a confusing world, is n't it?”
The state of mind of Stellamaris at this period may be best described as one of suspended judgment. It was a confusing world. She could not pronounce a more definite opinion. The Land of Illusion was a lost Atlantis of which not a speck remained. On the other hand, the world was no longer the mere abode of sin and ugliness and horror to which she had gradually awakened. Unity had taught her that. What, then, was this mysterious complication of life in which she found herself involved? It no longer frightened her. It interested her curiously.
“Excellency dear,” she said one day, “are there any books about life?”
He stared at her, covering his non-comprehension with the usual military twirl of his moustache.
“Millions. What kind of life?”
“Life itself. The meaning of it.”
“Religious books? I'm afraid they 're not in my line, my dear.”
“I don't think it 's religious books I want,” said Stella.
“Philosophy, then. Kant, Schopenhauer,—um—er,”—he hooked a name from the depths of his memory—“Bain, and all those fellows. I could never make head or tail of them myself, so I don't suppose you could, dear.”
“Did you say Kant? I think I've seen a book of his in the library.”