Here, put in words at last, was manifestly the secret, that catch of understanding without which men are groping in the dark, perhaps that mere pointing of relations which would make clear, without blasphemy, time and the future, rebirth and old existence, it might be; and certainly the accident of personality.
Here, crystallized, were the things that men almost know, the dream that has just escaped every one, the whisper in sleep that would have explained if one could remember when one woke, the word that has been thrillingly flashed to one in moments of absorption and has fled before one might catch the sound, the far hope of science, the glimpse that comes to dying eyes and is voiced in fragments by dying lips.

Here without penetrating the great reserve or tracing any principle to its beginning, was the truth about both.

And St.George was powerless to receive it.
He turned fearfully to Olivia.

Ah--what if she did not guess anything of the meaning of what she was hearing?
For one instant he knew all the misery of one whose friend stands on another star.

But when he saw her uplifted face, her eager eyes and quick breath and her look divinely questioning his, he was certain that though she might not read the figures of the veil, yet she too knew how near, how near they Stood; and to be with her on this side was dearer--nay, was nearer the Secret--than without her to pass the veil that they touched.