“Is there?” said Bertie. “What, exactly? It always seems to me that when there is no thought and no action, there is nothing.”
Again Maurice was slow in replying.
“There is something,” he replied. “I couldn’t tell you what it is.”
And the talk lapsed once more, Isabel and Bertie chatting gossip and reminiscence, the blind man silent.
At length Maurice rose restlessly, a big, obtrusive figure. He felt tight and hampered. He wanted to go away.
“Do you mind,” he said, “if I go and speak to Wernham?”
“No—go along, dear,” said Isabel.
And he went out. A silence came over the two friends. At length Bertie said:
“Nevertheless, it is a great deprivation, Cissie.”
“It is, Bertie. I know it is.”