over-culture, crushes men who learn too much and think too deeply.
But before going further I had better introduce myself. My name is
Alwyn ..."

"Theos Alwyn, the English author, I presume?" interposed the monk
interrogatively.

"Why, yes!" this in accents of extreme surprise--"how did you know
that!"

"Your celebrity," politely suggested Heliobas, with a wave of the
hand and an enigmatical smile that might have meant anything or
nothing.

Alwyn colored a little. "Your mistake," he said indifferently, "I
have no celebrity. The celebrities of my country are few, and
among them those most admired are jockeys and divorced women. I
merely follow in the rear-line of the art or profession of
literature--I am that always unluckiest and most undesirable kind
of an author, a writer of verse--I lay no claim, not now at any
rate, to the title of poet. While recently staying in Paris I
chanced to hear of you ..."

The monk bowed ever so slightly--there was a dawning gleam of
satire in his brilliant eyes.

"You won special distinction and renown there, I believe, before
you adopted this monastic life?" pursued Alwyn, glancing at him
curiously.