Indeed, it seemed to St.George as if almost--almost he could understand, as if he could pierce the veil and know utterly all the secrets of spirit and sense that confound.

"We shall all know _when we are able to bear it_," he had once heard another say, and it seemed to him now that at last he was able to bear it, as if the sense of the uninterrupted connection between the two worlds was almost a part of his own consciousness.

A moment's deeper thought, a quicker flowing of the imagination, a little more poignant projecting of himself above the abyss and he, too, would understand.

It came to him that he had almost understood every time that he had looked at Olivia.
Ah, he thought, and how exquisite, how matchless she was, and what Heaven beyond Heaven the world would hold for him if only she were to love him.

St.George lifted the little hand that hung at her side, and stooped momentarily to touch his cheek to the soft hair that swept her shoulder.