CHAPTER XII.
BEFORE the door of Verite's room lies a handsome animal. It somewhat resembles a Newfoundland dog, with a tiger's skin, but eyes of dutiful love. Why is this? It growls at my approach, as it doubtless would were I dressed in my earth body, and a troubled look is in its face!
The door opens. I enter her room while Veritée caresses the animal, saying: "Not your time yet, Leoni. You are impatient this afternoon. Lie quietly, you unreasonable old dear."
We are in Veritée's study—a pretty room, shelves full of books, small table (by which is a full-length statue holding a torch) and two comfortable chairs. We pass through a bathroom into the sleep chamber;—bed without hangings or other disease-creating rubbish about it, yet it is far prettier than those we have in use. By the head is the light-giving statue, which is, at the same time, refinement and utility. In file further side is large glass door, opening to a verandah or balcony, having steps along its whole length which is that of the house, leading into a garden—so pleasant with its new and varied growths that it almost made me forget Veritée.
She has taken off her outer clothes, and on the only chair is laying those wondrous garments—impossible to crush, yet so lustrous. Her under dress is a duplicate suit of silk,
