"... If possible, the silence of thought."

He thought he understood now what this signified, and that he was
experiencing it. No longer did he dwell upon, or consider, with any
voluntary activity, the images that passed before him. Rather they
moved past him while he simply regarded them without understanding.
His perception ran swiftly outwards, as through concentric circles,
yet he was not sure whether it were outwards or inwards that he went.
The roar of London, with its flight of ocular visions, sank behind
him, and without any further sense of mental travel, he found himself
perceiving his own home, whether in memory, imagination, or fact he
did not know. But he perceived his mother, in the familiar lamp-lit
room, over her needlework, and Maggie--Maggie looking at him with a
strange, almost terrified expression in her great eyes. Then these too
were gone; and he was out in some warm silence, filled with a single
presence--that which he desired; and there he stopped.

* * * * *

He was not in the least aware of how long this lasted. But he found
himself at a certain moment in time, looking steadily at the white
paper on the table, from which the hand had gone, again conscious of
the sudden passing of some clear sound that left no echo--as sharp as
the crack of a whip. Oh! the paper--that was the important point! He
bent a little closer, and was aware of a sharp disappointment as he
saw it was stainless of writing. Then he was astonished that the hand
and pencil had gone from it, and looked up quickly.

Mr. Vincent was looking at him with a strange expression.