Then came something that seemed leading up to the pet sentence that was the signal he waited for—nearer to it, at any rate:
"... It's childish, surely, to go on merely seeking more of what we have already. We should seek something new...."
A call, it seemed, came to him on the wind from the dark trees. But still he could not move.
But, at last, out of a prolonged jumble of the two voices, one growling, the other high pitched, came the signal he somehow waited for. Even now, however, the speaker delayed it as long as possible. He was doing it, of course, on purpose. This was intentional, obviously.
"... Yes, but a thing out of its right place is without power, life, means of expression—robbed of its context which alone gives it meaning—robbed, so to speak, of its arms and legs—without a body...."
There, at least, was the definite proof that Father Collins was doing this of deliberate, set purpose!
"Go on! Yes, but, for God's sake, say it! I want to be off!" Fillery believed he shrieked the words, but apparently they were inaudible. They remained unnoticed, at any rate.
"... Hence the value of order, tidiness, you see. Often a misplaced thing is invisible until replaced where it belongs. It is, as we say, lost. No movement is meaningless, no walk without purpose. All your movements tend towards your proper place...."
A breeze blew the fountain spray aside so that its splashing ceased for a brief second. From the rustling leaves beyond came a faint murmur as of distant piping. But—into the second's pause had leaped the pet sentence:
"Only a being in his own place is the ruler of his fate."