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.'

'Something lacking all the time,' said Bertie.

'Yes, I know. And yet--and yet--Maurice is right. There is something
else, something _there_, which you never knew was there, and which you
can't express.'

'What is there?' asked Bertie.