or to walk with. We reveal what we are not by our acts."
"How can that be? By our words. Surely that is what you mean?"
"No, we lie indeed perpetually. That is what makes life so curious, and sometimes so interesting. We lie to the world in open deeds, to ourselves in secret deeds. We have a beautiful passion for all that is theatrical, and we have two kinds of plays in which we indulge our desire of mumming, the plays that we act for others, and the plays that we act for ourselves. Both are interesting, but the latter are engrossing. Our secret virtues, our secret vices, are the plays that we act for our own benefit. Both are equally selfish, and bizarre, and full of imagination. We make vices of our virtues, and virtues of our vices. The former we consider the duty that we owe to others, the latter the duty that we owe to ourselves. If we practise the latter with the greatest earnestness, are stricter about the rehearsals, in fact, it is not wonderful."
"But then, if you explain everything away like that, there is no residuum left. Where is the reality? Where is the real man?"
Mr. Amarinth smiled with a wide sweetness.
"The real man is a Mrs. Harris," he re-
