in another--had 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-tree--so long awaited,
so strange and swift when once it comes--man 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 cari