"Your fears are well-founded," said Shimrod. "Still, she may choose not to deal with Torqual."

"So it may be."

"She is now at home?"

"Yes; as usual she sits looking out to sea."

"I will call on her. Perhaps I can set matters straight." Lillas spoke anxiously: "You will not reveal that we have discussed her affairs?"

"Certainly not."

Lillas went back to the fruit-seller's booth; Shimrod crossed the square to the harbour road. His suspicions had been validated Melancthe's involvement in the affair might so far only be passive and might remain so, still Melancthe's only sure trait was her unpredictability.

Shimrod looked to the north, toward the white villa. He could find no reason for delay, save his own reluctance to confront Melancthe. He set off to the north along the beach road, walking with long deliberate strides, and soon arrived at the white stone wall. No black urn, so he noted, was visible.

Shimrod crossed the garden, went to the door He raised the knocker and let it fall.

There was no response.

Shimrod knocked a second time, with the same result as before.

The villa, so it seemed, was empty of its occupants. Shimrod turned slowly away from the door, then went to stand by the side of the gate. He looked up the road to the north. In the near distance he discovered Melancthe, approaching without haste. He felt no surprise; so it had been in his dreams.

Shimrod waited, with the sunlight glaring down upon the sand of the road. Melancthe drew near: a slender dark-haired maiden wearing a white knee-length frock and sandals. With only a brief impassive stare for Shimrod, she turned through the gate; as she passed, Shimrod sensed the faint odor of violets which always accompanied her.

Melancthe went to the door. Shimrod followed soberly and entered the villa behind her. She went along the hall and into a long room with a wide arched window overlooking the sea. Moving to the window, Melancthe stood gazing pensively toward the horizon. Shimrod stood in the doorway, looking here and there, appraising the room. Little had changed since his last visit. The walls were washed white; on the tiled floor three rugs showed bold patterns of orange, red, black, white and green. A table, a few heavy chairs, a divan and a sideboard were the only furnishings. The walls were innocent of decoration; nowhere in the room were objects to indicate Melancthe's point of view or to suggest the bent of her personality. The rugs were vivid and vital, and would seem to be imports from the Atlas Mountains; almost certainly, so Shimrod surmised, they had been purchased and laid down by Lillas the maid, with Melancthe taking no particular notice.

Melancthe at last turned to Shimrod, and showed him a curious twisted smile. "Speak, Shimrod! Why are you here?"

"You recognize me, despite my disguise?"

Melancthe seemed taken aback. " ‘Disguise'? I notice no disguise. You are Shimrod, as meek, quixotic and indecisive as ever."

"No doubt," said Shimrod. "So much for my disguise; I cannot conceal my identity. Have you decided upon an identity for Melancthe?"

Melancthe made an airy gesture. "Such talk is beside the mark. What is your business with me? I doubt that you have come to analyze my character."

Shimrod pointed to the divan. "Let us sit; it is dreary work talking on both feet."

Melancthe gave an indifferent shrug and dropped down upon the divan; Shimrod seated himself beside her. "You are as beautiful as ever."

"So I am told."

"At our last meeting you had developed a taste for poisonous blossoms. Is this inclination still with you?"

Melancthe shook her head. "There are no more such blossoms to be found. I think of them often; they were wonderfully appealing; do you not agree?"

"They were fascinating, if vile," said Shimrod.

"I did not find them so. The colors were of great variety, and the scents were unusual."

"Still-you must believe me!-they represented the aspects of evil: the many flavors of purulence, so to speak."

Melancthe smiled and shook her head. "I cannot understand these tedious abstractions, and I doubt if the effort would yield any amusement, since I am easily bored."

"As a matter of interest, do you know the meaning of the word ‘evil'?'"

"It seems to mean what you intend it to mean."

"The word is general. Do you know the difference between, let us say, kindness and cruelty?"

"I have never thought to notice. Why do you ask?"

"Because, for a fact, I have come to study your character."

"Again? For what reason?"

"I am curious to discover whether you are ‘good' or ‘bad'." Melancthe shrugged. "That is as if I were to ask whether you were a bird or a fish-and then expect an earnest answer."

Shimrod sighed. "Just so. How goes your life?"

"I prefer it to oblivion."

"How do you occupy yourself each day?"

"I watch the sea and the sky; sometimes I wade in the surf and build roads in the sand. At night I study the stars."

"You have no friends?"

"No."

"And what of the future?"

"The future stops at Now."

"As to that, I am not so sure," said Shimrod. "It is at best a half-truth."

"What of that? Half a truth is better than none: do you not agree?"

"Not altogether," said Shimrod. "I am a practical man, I try to control the shape of the ‘nows' which lie in the offing, instead of submitting to them as they occur."

Melancthe gave an uninterested shrug. "You are free to do as you like." Leaning back into the cushions, she looked out across the sea.

Shimrod finally spoke. "Well then: are you ‘good' or ‘bad'?"

"I don't know."

Shimrod became vexed. "Talking with you is like visiting an empty house."

Melancthe considered a moment before responding. "Perhaps," she said, "you are visiting the wrong house. Or perhaps you are the wrong visitor."

"Ha hah!" said Shimrod. "You seem to be telling me that indeed, you are capable of thought."

"I think constantly, day and night."

"What thoughts do you think?"

"You would not understand them."

"Do your thoughts bring you pleasure? Or peace?"

"As always, you ask questions I cannot answer."

"They seem simple enough."

"For you, no doubt. As for me, I was brought naked and empty into the world; it was only required that I imitate humanity, not that I should become human. I do not know what sort of creature I am. This is the subject of my reflections. They are complicated. Since I know no human emotions, I have contrived an entire new compendium, which only I can feel."

"That is very interesting! When do you use these new emotions?"

"I use them continually. Some are heavy, others are light, and are named for clouds. Some are constant; others are fugitive. Sometimes they come to thrill me and I would like to keep them forever-just as I longed to keep the wonderful flowers! But the moods slip away before I can name them, and cherish them in my heart. Sometimes, often, they never come back, no matter how I yearn."

"How do you name these emotions? Tell me!"

Melancthe shook her head. "The names would mean nothing. I have watched insects, wondering how they name their emotions and wondering if perhaps they were like mine."

"I should think not," said Shimrod.

Melancthe spoke on unheeding. "It may be that instead of emotion, I feel sensation only, which I think to be emotion. This is how an insect feels the moods of its life."

"In your new set of emotions, do you have equivalents for ‘good' and ‘bad'?"

"These are not emotions! You are trying to trick me into talking your language! Very well; I shall answer. I do not know what to think of myself. Since I am not human, I wonder what I am and how my life will go."

Shimrod sat back and reflected. "At one time you served Tamurello: why did you do so?"