distended. Looking back on that pretty voyage, we see the reason why those ships were doomed never to move, but, seated on the sea-green bosom of that sea, to heave up and down, heading across each other's bows in the self-same place for ever. That reason, in few words, was this: 'The man who blew should have been in the sea, not on the ship.'” The droning ceased. Hilary saw that Mr. Stone was staring fixedly at his sheet of paper, as though the merits of this last sentence were surprising him. The droning instantly began again: “'In social effort, as in the physical processes of Nature, there had ever been a single fertilising agent--the mysterious and wonderful attraction known as Love. To this--that merging of one being in another--had been due all the progressive variance of form, known by man under the name of Life. It was this merger, this mysterious, unconscious Love, which was lacking to the windy efforts of those who tried to sail that fleet. They were full of reason, conscience, horror, full of impatience, contempt, revolt; but they did not love the masses of their fellow-men. They could not fling themselves into the sea. Their hearts were glowing; but the wind which made them glow was not the salt and universal zephyr: it was the desert wind of scorn. As with the flowering of the aloe-tree--so long awaited, so strange and swift when once it comes--man had yet to wait for his delirious impulse to Universal Brotherhood, and the forgetfulness of Self.'” Mr. Stone had finished, and stood gazing at his visitor with eyes that clearly saw beyond him. Hilary could not meet those eyes; he kept his own fixed on the empty cocoa cup. It was not, in fact, usual for those who heard Mr. Stone read his manuscript to look him in the face. He stood thus absorbed so long that Hilary rose at last, and glanced into the saucepan. There was no cocoa in it. Mr. Stone had only made enough for one. He had meant it for his visitor, but self-forgetfulness had supervened. “You know what happens to the aloe, sir, when it has flowered?” asked Hilary with malice. Mr. Stone moved, but did not answer. “It dies,” said Hilary. “No,” said Mr. Stone; “it is at peace.” “When is self at peace, sir? The individual is surely as immortal as the universal. That is the eternal comedy of life.” “What is?” said Mr. Stone. “The fight or game between the two.” Mr. Stone stood a moment looking wistfully at his son-in-law. He laid down the sheet of manuscript. “It is time for me to do my exercises.” So saying, he undid the tasselled cord tied round the middle of his gown. Hilary hastened to the door. From that point of vantage he looked back. Divested of his gown and turned towards the window, Mr. Stone was already rising on his toes, his arms were extended, his palms pressed hard together in the attitude of prayer, his trousers slowly slipping down. “One, two, three, four, five!” There was a sudden sound of breath escaping....