"At last!" he murmured softly to himself, "at last!"
He moved forward slowly into the room, his eyes still fixed on
vacancy. The face showed exquisite delight, but the lips were
otherwise dumb. He looked as if he had caught a glimpse of something
he could not utter.
"Porridge, please, Uncle," he heard a voice saying, as some one put a
large silver spoon into his hand. "I like the hard lumps." And another
voice added, "I like the soupy, slippery stuff, please." He pulled
himself together with an effort.
"Ah," he mumbled, peeping from the dishes at the children's faces,
"the tea has stopped turning in the cup at last. He's come up to the
surface."
And they turned and looked at him, but without the least surprise
again; it was perfectly natural, it seemed, that there should be this
Presence in the room; their Uncle's remark was neither here nor there.
He had a right to express his own ideas in his own way if he wanted
to. Their own remarks outside the door they had apparently forgotten.
That, indeed, was already a very long time ago now. In the full bliss
of realisation, anticipation was naturally not remembered.
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