"It is a new thought to me," said Hilary.

"It is not tenable," said Mr. Stone. "But it is restful. The wind is
everywhere and nowhere, and nothing can be hidden from it. When I have
missed that little girl, I have tried, in a sense, to become the wind;
but I have found it difficult."

His eyes left Hilary's face, whose mournful smile he had not noticed,
and fixed themselves on the bright fire. "'In those days,"' he said,
"'men's relation to the eternal airs was the relation of a billion
little separate draughts blowing against the south-west wind. They did
not wish to merge themselves in that soft, moon-uttered sigh, but blew
in its face through crevices, and cracks, and keyholes, and were borne
away on the pellucid journey, whistling out their protests.'"

He again tried to stand, evidently wishing to get to his desk to record
this thought, but, failing, looked painfully at Hilary. He seemed about
to ask for something, but checked himself.

"If I practise hard," he murmured, "I shall master it."

Hilary rose and brought him paper and a pencil. In bending, he saw that
Mr. Stone's eyes were dim with moisture. This sight affected him so that
he was glad to turn away and fetch a book to form a writing-pad.

When Mr. Stone had finished, he sat back in his chair with closed
eyes. A supreme silence reigned in the bare room above those two men of
different generations and of such strange dissimilarity of character.
Hilary broke that silence.