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 agent--the mysterious and wonderful attraction known as
Love. To this--that merging of one being 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.
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