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The droning ceased。 Hilary saw that Mr。 Stone was staring fixedly at his sheet of paper； as though the merits of this last sentence were surprising him。 The droning instantly began again： 〃'In social effort； as in the physical processes of Nature； there had ever been a single fertilising agentthe mysterious and wonderful attraction known as Love。 To thisthat merging of one being in anotherhad been due all the progressive variance of form； known by man under the name of Life。 It was this merger； this mysterious； unconscious Love； which was lacking to the windy efforts of those who tried to sail that fleet。 They were full of reason； conscience； horror； full of impatience； contempt； revolt； but they did not love the masses of their fellow…men。 They could not fling themselves into the sea。 Their hearts were glowing； but the wind which made them glow was not the salt and universal zephyr： it was the desert wind of scorn。 As with the flowering of the aloe…treeso long awaited； so strange and swift when once it comesman had yet to wait for his delirious impulse to Universal Brotherhood； and the forgetfulness of Self。'〃
Mr。 Stone had finished； and stood gazing at his visitor with eyes that clearly saw beyond him。 Hilary could not meet those eyes； he kept his own fixed on the empty cocoa cup。 It was not； in fact； usual for those who heard Mr。 Stone read his manuscript to look him in the face。 He stood thus absorbed so long that Hilary rose at last； and glanced into the saucepan。 There was no cocoa in it。 Mr。 Stone had only made enough for one。 He had meant it for his visitor； but self…forgetfulness had supervened。
〃You know what happens to the aloe； sir； when it has flowered？〃 asked Hilary with malice。
Mr。 Stone moved； but did not answer。
〃It dies；〃 said Hilary。
〃No；〃 said Mr。 Stone； 〃it is at peace。〃
〃When is self at peace； sir？ The individual is surely as immortal as the universal。 That is the eternal comedy of life。〃
〃What is？〃 said Mr。 Stone。
〃The fight or game between the two。〃
Mr。 Stone stood a moment looking wistfully at his son…in…law。 He laid down the sheet of manuscript。 〃It is time for me to do my exercises。〃 So saying； he undid the tasselled cord tied round the middle of his gown。
Hilary hastened to the door。 From that point of vantage he looked back。
Divested of his gown and turned towards the window； Mr。 Stone was already rising on his toes； his arms were extended； his palms pressed hard together in the attitude of prayer； his trousers slowly slipping down。
〃One； two； three； four； five！〃 There was a sudden sound of breath escaping。。。。
In the corridor upstairs； flooded with moonlight from a window at the end； Hilary stood listening again。 The only sound that came to him was the light snoring of Miranda； who slept in the bathroom； not caring to lie too near to anyone。 He went to his room； and for a long time sat buried in thought； then； opening the side window； he leaned out。 On the trees of the next garden； and the sloping roofs of stables and outhouses； the moonlight had come down like a flight of milk…white pigeons； with outspread wings； vibrating faintly as though yet in motion； they covered everything。 Nothing stirred。 A clock was striking two。 Past that flight of milk…white pigeons were black walls as yet unvisited。 Then； in the stillness； Hilary seemed to hear； deep and very faint； the sound as of some monster breathing； or the far beating of muffed drums。 From every side of the pale sleeping town it seemed to come； under the moon's cold glamour。 It rose； and fell； and rose； with a weird； creepy rhythm； like a groaning of the hopeless and hungry。 A hansom cab rattled down the High Street； Hilary strained his ears after the failing clatter of hoofs and bell。 They died； there was silence。 Creeping nearer； drumming； throbbing； he heard again the beating of that vast heart。 It grew and grew。 His own heart began thumping。 Then； emerging from that sinister dumb groan； he distinguished a crunching sound； and knew that it was no muttering echo of men's struggles； but only the waggons journeying to Covent Garden Market。
CHAPTER XIV
A WALK ABROAD
Thyme Dallison； in the midst of her busy life； found leisure to record her recollections and ideas in the pages of old school notebooks。 She had no definite purpose in so doing； nor did she desire the solace of luxuriating in her private feelingsthis she would have scorned as out of date and silly。 It was done from the fulness of youthful energy； and from the desire to express oneself that was 〃in the air。〃 It was everywhere； that desire： among her fellow…students； among her young men friends； in her mother's drawing…room； and her aunt's studio。 Like sentiment and marriage to the Victorian miss； so was this duty to express herself to Thyme； and； going hand…in…hand with it； the duty to have a good and jolly youth。 She never read again the thoughts which she recorded； she took no care to lock them up； knowing that her liberty； development； and pleasure were sacred things which no one would dream of touching she kept them stuffed down in a drawer among her handkerchiefs and ties and blouses； together with the indelible fragment of a pencil。
This journal； naive and slipshod； recorded without order the current impression of things on her mind。
In the early morning of the 4th of May she sat； night…gowned； on the foot of her white bed； with chestnut hair all fluffy about her neck； eyes bright and cheeks still rosy with sleep； scribbling away and rubbing one bare foot against the other in the ecstasy of self… expression。 Now and then； in the middle of a sentence； she would stop and look out of the window； or stretch herself deliciously； as though life were too full of joy for her to finish anything。
〃I went into grandfather's room yesterday； and stayed while he was dictating to the little model。 I do think grandfather's so splendid。 Martin says an enthusiast is worse than useless； people； he says； can't afford to dabble in ideas or dreams。 He calls grandfather's idea paleolithic。 I hate him to be laughed at。 Martin's so cocksure。 I don't think he'd find many men of eighty who'd bathe in the Serpentine all the year round； and do his own room； cook his own food； and live on about ninety pounds a year out of his pension of three hundred； and give all the rest away。 Martin says that's unsound； and the 'Book of Universal Brotherhood' rot。 I don't care if it is； it's fine to go on writing it as he does all day。 Martin admits that。 That's the worst of him： he's so cool； you can't score him off； he seems to be always criticising you； it makes me wild。。。。 That little model is a hopeless duffer。 I could have taken it all down in half the time。 She kept stopping and looking up with that mouth of hers half open； as if she had all day before her。 Grandfather's so absorbed he doesn't notice； he likes to read the thing over and over； to hear how the words sound。 That girl would be no good at any sort of work； except 'sitting；' I suppose。 Aunt B。 used to say she sat well。 There's something queer about her face； it reminds me a little of that Botticelli Madonna in the National Gallery； the full…f