They did
not wish to merge themselves in that soft, moon-uttered sigh, but blew
in its face through crevices, and cracks, and keyholes, and were borne
away on the pellucid journey, whistling out their protests.'"
He again tried to stand, evidently wishing to get to his desk to record
this thought, but, failing, looked painfully at Hilary. He seemed about
to ask for something, but checked himself.
"If I practise hard," he murmured, "I shall master it."
Hilary rose and brought him paper and a pencil. In bending, he saw that
Mr. Stone's eyes were dim with moisture. This sight affected him so that
he was glad to turn away and fetch a book to form a writing-pad.
When Mr. Stone had finished, he sat back in his chair with closed
eyes. A supreme silence reigned in the bare room above those two men of
different generations and of such strange dissimilarity of character.
Hilary broke that silence.
"I heard the cuckoo sing to-day," he said, almost in a whisper, lest Mr.
Stone should be asleep.
"The cuckoo," replied Mr. Stone, "has no sense of brotherhood."
"I forgive him-for his song," murmured Hilary.
"His song," said Mr. Stone, "is alluring; it excites the sexual
instinct."
Then to himself he added:
"She has not come, as yet!"
Even as he spoke there was heard by Hilary a faint tapping on the door.
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