"What! The Prolongation of the Vital Energy? Do you know what that means?" The Director turned pale. "Are we to understand—"
"Come," said the Professor, "we must not waste the time."
Then the Director, startled and pale, took his German brother by the arm and led him into the Theatre, murmuring, "Prolongation . . . Prolongation . . . Prolongation . . . of the Vital—the Vital—Energy!"
The Theatre was crowded. There was not a vacant seat: there was no more standing room on the stairs; the very doors of the gallery were thronged: the great staircase was thronged with those who could not get in, but waited to get the first news. Nay, outside the Institution, Albemarle Street was crowded with people waiting to hear what this great thing might be which all the world had waited six months to hear. Within the Theatre, what an audience! For the first time in English history, no respect at all had been paid to rank: the people gathered in the Theatre were all that the great City could boast that was distinguished in science, art, and letters. Those present were the men who moved the world. Among them, naturally, a sprinkling of the men who are born to the best things of the world, and are sometimes told that they help to move it. There were ladies among the company too—ladies well known in scientific and literary circles, with certain great ladies led by curiosity. On the left-hand side of the Theatre, for instance, close to the door, sat two very great ladies, indeed—one of them the Countess of Thordisá, and the other her only daughter, the Lady Mildred Carera. Leaning against the pillar beside them stood a young man of singularly handsome appearance, tall and commanding of stature.
"To you. Dr. Linister," said the Countess, "I suppose
