He again tried to stand, evidently wishing to get to his desk to record this thought, but, failing, looked painfully at Hilary. He seemed about to ask for something, but checked himself.
“If I practise hard,” he murmured, “I shall master it.”
Hilary rose and brought him paper and a pencil. In bending, he saw that Mr. Stone's eyes were dim with moisture. This sight affected him so that he was glad to turn away and fetch a book to form a writing-pad.
When Mr. Stone had finished, he sat back in his chair with closed eyes. A supreme silence reigned in the bare room above those two men of different generations and of such strange dissimilarity of character. Hilary broke that silence.
“I heard the cuckoo sing to-day,” he said, almost in a whisper, lest Mr. Stone should be asleep.
“The cuckoo,” replied Mr. Stone, “has no sense of brotherhood.”
“I forgive him-for his song,” murmured Hilary.
“His song,” said Mr. Stone, “is alluring; it excites the sexual instinct.”
Then to himself he added:
“She has not come, as yet!”