Apostate"--and then the wind. Up go the elm branches, out blow the
sails, the old schooners rear and plunge, the grey waves in the hot
Indian Ocean tumble sultrily, and then all falls flat again.

So, if the veiled lady stepped through the Courts of Trinity, she now
drowsed once more, all her draperies about her, her head against a
pillar.

"Somehow it seems to matter."

The low voice was Simeon's.

The voice was even lower that answered him. The sharp tap of a pipe on
the mantelpiece cancelled the words. And perhaps Jacob only said "hum,"
or said nothing at all. True, the words were inaudible. It was the
intimacy, a sort of spiritual suppleness, when mind prints upon mind
indelibly.

"Well, you seem to have studied the subject," said Jacob, rising and
standing over Simeon's chair. He balanced himself; he swayed a little.
He appeared extraordinarily happy, as if his pleasure would brim and
spill down the sides if Simeon spoke.

Simeon said nothing. Jacob remained standing. But intimacy--the room was
full of it, still, deep, like a pool. Without need of movement or speech
it rose softly and washed over everything, mollifying, kindling, and
coating the mind with the lustre of pearl, so that if you talk of a
light, of Cambridge burning, it's not languages only. It's Julian the
Apostate.