As he stood looking down the vast chamber, all springing columns and light lines lifting through the honey-coloured air, it smote St.George that these people, instead of being far away, were all near, surprisingly, unbelievably near to him,--in a way, nearer to his own elusive personality than he was himself.

They were all obviously of his own class; he could perfectly imagine his mother, with her old lace and Roman mosaics, moving at home among them, and the bishop, with his wise, kindly smile.

Yet he was irresistibly reminded of a certain haunting dream of his childhood in which he had seemed to himself to walk the world alone, with every one else allied against him because they all knew something that he did not know.

That was it, he thought suddenly, and felt his pulse quickening at the intimation: _They all knew something that he did not know_, that he could not know.

But, as they swept him with their clear-eyed, impersonal look, a look that seemed in some exquisite fashion to take no account of individuality, he was gratefully aware of a curious impression that they would like to have had him know, too.
"They wish I knew--they'd rather I did know," St.George found himself thinking in a strange excitement, "if only I could know--if only I could know." He looked about him, smiling a little at his folly.