Rador stamped twice and the same supernally sweet, silver bell tones of⁠—yesterday, I must call it, although in that place of eternal day the term is meaningless⁠—bade us enter. The door slipped aside. The chamber was small, the opal walls screening it on three sides, the black opacity covering it, the fourth side opening out into a delicious little walled garden⁠—a mass of the fragrant, luminous blooms and delicately colored fruit. Facing it was a small table of reddish wood and from the omnipresent cushions heaped around it arose to greet us⁠—Yolara.

Larry drew in his breath with an involuntary gasp of admiration and bowed low. My own admiration was as frank⁠—and the priestess was well pleased with our homage.