n at the work he
was born to do._

"And having once reached that conclusion, I set about formulating plans
for the building of my machine. An instrument so delicate that it could
register a man's leading talent."

Mr. Massey moved away a little. He stared doubtfully at the inventor
before the clearing thought came. Before him stood a madman, a wild
visionary.

He looked over at his hat and coat. To stay was a mere waste of time, he
realized that now. Still, there was Suzanna who had made a place for
herself in his gruff old heart. The machine, he knew, could have no
commercial value. Yet he remembered a few of Suzanna's values which were
not based on the possession of money.

Well, for Suzanna's sake he would listen, go away and forget. So he
seated himself, and waited condescendingly for the inventor to continue.
He himself said nothing, for silence, he had learned, was golden.

Mr. Procter went on. "My first step in the work was to evolve what might
be termed a system of color interpretation."

"I don't understand at all," said old John Massey sharply.

The inventor hesitated. Visionary, he might truly be called, but, too,
he was sensitive and he had felt the capitalist's withdrawal as soon as
the purpose of the machine was explained to him. But the end was a big
one. He must not hesitate, so he went on.

"May I put it broadly without arousing your derision, that color sight
was bestowed upon me. Just as my little girl Suzanna visualizes each day
as a shape, so I've always seen people in color; that out of that sight
I built my own science of color."

"_Romance_ of color, you mean," returned John Massey harshly, "for so
far as I can gain, there is no science about it. I deal in facts, Mr.
Procter, not in air castles. Does the machine do anything, but stand
there a silent monument to your dreams?"

Mr. Procter hesitated but a moment, then, "Come, Mr. Massey," he said,
"take your place. Let us see what the machine says of you. Remember,
please, it will register only your truest meaning, the purpose for which
you were born; the part of you which never dies, which is never really
submerged, regardless of a turning to false gods."

A little uneasy despite himself, Mr. Massey seated himself before the
machine.

The inventor touched levers, opened and shut doors, lowered the helmet,
adjusted the lens.

As the clicking sound commenced Mr. Massey stirred. "Keep very quiet,"
said the inventor, "and watch the gl