between Sypher's Cure and Jebusa Jones's Cuticle Remedy, siding loyally and
whole-heartedly with her astonishing host, failed to pierce to the
spirituality of the man--to divine him as a Poet with an Ideal.

"After all," said Sypher on the way back--Septimus, with his coat-collar
turned up over his ears, still sat on guard by the chauffeur, consoled by a
happy hour he had spent alone with his mistress after lunch, while Sypher
was away putting the fear of God into his agent, during which hour he had
unfolded to her his scientific philosophy of perambulators--"after all,"
said Sypher, "the great thing is to have a Purpose in Life. Everyone can't
have my Purpose "--he apologized for humanity--"but they can have some
guiding principle. What's yours?"

Zora was startled by the unexpected question. What was her Purpose in Life?
To get to the heart of the color of the world? That was rather vague. Also
nonsensical when so formulated. She took refuge in jest.

"I thought you had decided that my mission was to help you slay the
dragon?"

"We have to decide on our missions for ourselves," said he.

"Don't you think it sufficient Purpose for a woman who has been in a gray
prison all her life--when she finds herself free--to go out and see all
that is wonderful in scenery like this, in paintings, architecture,
manners, and customs of other nations, in people who have other ideas and
feelings from those she knew in prison? You speak as if you're finding
fault with me for not doing anything useful. Isn't what I do enough? What
else can I do?"