The purple sea of self-forgetfulness, under the dim, impersonal
sky, seemed to him so cold and terrible. It had no limit that he
could see, no rules but such as hung too far away, written in the
hieroglyphics of paling stars. He could feel no order in the lift and
lap of the wan waters round his limbs. Where would those waters carry
him? To what depth of still green silence? Was his own little
daughter to go down into this sea that knew no creed but that of
self-forgetfulness, that respected neither class nor person--this sea
where a few wandering streaks seemed all the evidence of the precious
differences between mankind? God forbid it!
And, turning on his elbow, he looked at her who had given him this
daughter. In the mystery of his wife's sleeping face--the face of her
most near and dear to him--he tried hard not to see a likeness to Mr.
Stone. He fell back somewhat comforted with the thought: 'That old chap
has his one idea--his Universal Brotherhood. He's absolutely absorbed in
it. I don't see it in Cis's face a bit. Quite the contrary.'
But suddenly a flash of clear, hard cynicism amounting to inspiration
utterly disturbed him: The old chap, indeed, was so wrapped up in
himself and his precious book as to be quite unconscious that anyone
else was alive. Could one be everybody's brother if one were blind
to their existence? But this freak of Thyme's was an actual try to be
everybody's sister.
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