"She does not burn with it," was the reply.
At concerts he behaved individually too. They bored as well as puzzled him; the music hardly stirred him. He showed signs of distress at anything classical, though Wagner, Debussy, the Russians, moved him and produced excitement.
"He," was his remark, with emphasis, "has heard. He gives me freedom. I could fly and go away. He sets me free ..." and then he would say no more, not even in reply to questions. He could not define the freedom he referred to, nor could he say where he could go away to. But his face lit up, he smiled his delightful smile, he looked happy. "Stars," he added once in a tone of interest, in reply to repeated questions, "stars, wind, fire, away from this!"—he tapped his head and breast—"I feel more alive and real."
"It's real and true, that music? That's what you feel?"
"It's beyond this," he replied, again tapping his body. "They have heard."
The cinema interested him more. Yet its limits seemed to perplex him more than its wonder thrilled him. He accepted it as a simple, natural, universal thing.
"They stay always on the sheet," he observed with evident surprise. "And I hear nothing. They do not even sing. Sound and movement go together!"
"The speaking will come," explained Fillery. "Those are pictures merely."
"I understand. Yet sound is natural, isn't it? They ought to be heard."
"Speech," agreed his companion, "is natural, but singing isn't."