"I can do no more," he whispered. "My power
is gone from me; I must rest." And his voice gave way. "I beg you to
go, unhappy poor of the world! I have done all that I can do for you
tonight."
And silently, patiently, as creatures accustomed to the voice of
doom, the sick and the crippled began to hobble and crawl from the
room.
XXII
He sat on the edge of the couch, gazing into space, lost in tragic
thought; and Mary and I sat watching him, not quite certain whether
we ought to withdraw with the rest. But he did not seem aware of our
presence, so we stayed.
In our world it is not considered permissible for people to remain
in company without talking. If the talk lags, we have to cast
hurriedly about in our minds for something to say--it is called
"making conversation." But Carpenter evidently did not know about
this custom, and neither of us instructed him. Once or twice I stole
a glance at Mary, marvelling at her. All her life she had been a
conversational volcano, in a state of perpetual eruption; but now,
apparently she passed judgment on her own remarks, and found them
not worth making.
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