Philip nodded in impatient assent, and, without paying any further heed to his brother and sister, besought his friend to give him the proofs of the theory that the physical causation of things is weaker than the sympathy which connects them. Melissa knew full well that any attempt now to separate Philip from Serapion would be futile; however, she would not leave the last chance untried, and asked him gravely whether he had forgotten his mother’s tomb.
He hastily assured her that he fully intended to visit it presently. Fruit and fragrant oil could be had here at any hour of the night.
“And your two wreaths?” she said, in mild reproach, for she had observed them both below the portrait of Korinna.
“I had another use for them,” he said, evasively; and then he added, apologetically: “You have brought flowers enough, I know. If I can find time, I will go to-morrow to see my father.” He nodded to them both, turned to the Magian, and went on eagerly:
They did not wait to hear the discussion; Alexander signed to his sister to follow him.
He, too, knew that his brother’s ear was deaf now to anything he could say. What Serapion had said had riveted even his attention, and the question whether it might indeed be vouchsafed to living mortals to see the souls of the departed, and hear their voices, exercised his mind so greatly that he could not forbear asking his sister’s opinion on such matters.
But Melissa’s good sense had felt that there was something not quite sound in the Magian’s argument--nor did she conceal her conviction that Philip, who was always hard to convince, had accepted Serapion’s views, not because he yielded to the weight of his reasons, but because he--and Alexander, too, for that matter--hoped by his mediation to see the beautiful Korinna again.
This the artist admitted; but when he jested of the danger of a jealous quarrel between him and his brother, for the sake of a dead girl, there was something hard in his tone, and very unlike him, which Melissa did not like.
They breathed more freely as they got out into the open air, and her efforts to change the subject of their conversation were happily seconded; for at the door they met the family of their neighbor Skopas, the owner of a stone-quarry, whose grave-plot adjoined theirs, and Melissa was happy again as she heard her brother laughing as gayly as ever with Skopas’s pretty daughter. The mania had not taken such deep hold of the light-hearted young painter as of Philip, the poring and gloomy philosopher; and she was glad as she heard her friend Ino call Alexander a faithless butterfly, while her sister Helena declared that he was a godless scoffer.