"The daisy," whispered Fillery, joy rising in him strangely.
"Nature," floated through the air like music, "is my place. With human beings I cannot work. It is too much, and I only should destroy. They are not ready yet, for our great rhythms injure them, and they cannot understand."
Trembling with emotions he could neither define nor control, Fillery led him to the window.
"Even in this little back-garden of a London house," he murmured, "among, so to speak, the humble buttercups and daisies of our life! The creative Intelligences at work, building, ever building the best forms they can. You re-make a broken daisy"—his voice rose, as the great shining face so close lit with its flaming smile—"you re-make as well our broken minds. In the subconscious hides our creative power that you stimulate. It is with that and that alone you work. It hides in all of us, though the artist alone perceives or can use it. It is with that you work——"
"With you, dear Fillery, I can work, for you help me to remember. You feel the big rhythms that we bring."
Dr. Fillery started, peered about him, listened hard. Was it the trees, shaking in the morning wind, that rustled? Was it a voice? The dancing leaves reflected the sunshine from a thousand facets. The sound accompanied, rather than interrupted, his own speech. He turned back to "N. H." with passionate enthusiasm.
"Using beauty—the artists—the creative powers of the Race," he went on, "we shall create together a new body, a new vehicle, through which your powers can express themselves. The intellect cannot serve you ... it is the creative imagination of those who know beauty that you seek. You are inarticulate in this wretched body. We shall make a new one——"
"They have come for me and I must go——"
"We will work together. Oh, stay—stay with me——!"
"I have found the way. I have remembered. I must go back——"