“I do not understand that,” I exclaimed.
“I know it,” said my brother; “that is the point.”
“But,” I cried in vexation, “but what could such things be? How can one think——”
“‘In that high hour thought was not,’” my brother quoted.
I sat silent, and a long pause followed. Then I began once more: “Let me ask you, Daniel; perhaps you do not understand how difficult it is for one mind to believe that it cannot grasp what is in another mind. But this—this knowledge to which you have come—you must surely have come to it by degrees, by a process?”
“Yes,” said he.
“And of that—surely you could explain to me at least the beginning, which might help me to divine in what the difference consists?”
He answered nothing for a moment; I went on quickly: “Ah, I fear that there must be another reason that you do not realise. Might it not be true that you would find it easier to explain to another than to me? Is it not at all that you shrink from my ways of thinking? Is it not that you know that I have never understood your art?”
“Tell me,” he asked suddenly, “what have you thought about me since you have been here?”
“What difference does it make what I think?” I cried. “What data have I for thinking anything? I know that I am in the presence of something which haunts me; and also that I have never been more wretched in my life.