"Good!" said Madison, smiling at her approvingly. "That sounds better.
Now listen--and listen hard. From this minute this cottage is the
Shrine. Get that?--Shrine. You've got to keep the hush falling here, and
keep it falling all the time--a sort of holy, hallowed silence,
understand? Lay it on thick--make the crowd stand back--make the guy
that comes in here feel as though he ought to come in on his knees and
as if he'd be struck dead if he didn't. Get the slow music and the low
lights working. And keep the Patriarch well back of the drop except when
he's on for a turn. Get me? He's no side-show with a barker in front of
the tent--don't forget that for a minute. The harder it is to see the
Patriarch and the less he's seen, the bigger he plays up when he's on.
He goes to no man under any conditions, and the only man or woman that
gets to him is through faith and supplication, and a double order of it
at that. Keep the solemn, breathless tap turned on all the time."

Helena looked at him with a strange little smile quivering on her lips.

"It's a good thing I've got a sense of humor," she said slowly, "or else
I think I'd--I'd--"

"No, you wouldn't," said Madison cheerfully. "But time's flying. You're
going to have visitors in a few minutes, and here's where the Patriarch
gets tucked away out of sight behind the veil for a starter, leaving his
presence hovering and throbbing all around in the air--you stay with
him, Flopper, in a back room somewhere and hold his hand. Where is he
now?"

"In his armchair in the sitting-room," said Helena. "And he's still
listening in that queer way he did out on the lawn. I think he knows in
a little way what's happened."