There's a good deal when you're not active.'
'Is there?' said Bertie. 'What, exactly? It always seems to me that when
there is no thought and no action, there is nothing.'
Again Maurice was slow in replying.
'There is something,' he replied. 'I couldn't tell you what it is.'
And the talk lapsed once more, Isabel and Bertie chatting gossip and
reminiscence, the blind man silent.
At length Maurice rose restlessly, a big, obtrusive figure. He felt tight
and hampered. He wanted to go away.
'Do you mind,' he said, 'if I go and speak to Wernham?'
'No--go along, dear,' said Isabel.
And he went out. A silence came over the two friends. At length Bertie
said:
'Nevertheless, it is a great deprivation, Cissie.'
'It is, Bertie. I know it is.'
'Something lacking all the time,' said Bertie.
'Yes, I know. And yet--and yet--Maurice is right. There is something
else, something _there_, which you never knew was there, and which you
can't express.'
'What is there?' asked Bertie.
'I don't know--it's awfully hard to define it--but something
strong and immediate. There's something strange in Maurice's
presence--indefinable--but I couldn't do without it. I agree that it
seems to put one's mind to sleep. But when we're alone I miss nothing; it
seems awfully rich, almost splendid, you know.'
'I'm afraid I don't follow,' said Bertie.
They talked desultorily. The wind blew loudly outside, rain chattered on
the window-panes, making a sharp, drum-sound, because of the closed,
mellow-golden shutters inside.
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