He spoke no word.
"What?" asked Tim abruptly, by way of a hint that something further
was expected of him.
Uncle Felix looked up with a start. Like Proteus who changed his shape
to save himself the trouble of prophesying, he swiftly changed the key
to save himself providing accurate information that he didn't possess.
"It wasn't a circle, exactly," he said slowly; "it was a thought, a
great, white, wonderful, shining thought. That's what started the
whole business first," and he looked round hopefully at the eager
faces. "Somebody thought it all," he went on, recklessly, "and it all
came true that way. See?"
They waited in silence for particulars.
"Somebody thought it all out first," he elaborated, "and so it simply
_had_ to happen."
There was an interval of some thirty seconds, and then Tim asked:
"But who thought _him_?" He said it with much emphasis.
Uncle Felix sat up with energy and lit his pipe. His listeners drew
closer, with the exception of Maria, whose life seemed concentrated in
her fixed and steady eyes.
"It's like this, you see," the man explained between the puffs; "if
you go into the schoolroom, you find a lot of things lying about
everywhere--blocks, toys, engines, and all sorts of things--don't
you?"
"Yes," they agreed, without enthusiasm.
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