the question he put explained his own thought to himself.
'What is it you expect, Mánya?' he had asked unwisely.
'Not expect exactly, Uncle, for that would be the wrong way. But I know.'
And several kinds of fear shot through him as he heard it, for the words lifted a veil and let him see into her mind a moment. She had said another of her profoundly mystical truths. Expectation, anticipation, he divined, would provide a mould for what was coming, would give it shape, but yet not quite its natural shape. To anticipate keenly meant to attract too quickly: to force. The expectant desire would coax what was coming into an unnatural form that might be dreadful because not quite true. Let the thing approach in its own way, uninvited by imaginative dread. Let it come upon them as it would, deciding its own shape of arrival. To expect was to invite distortion. This flashed across him behind her simple words.
'You fearful child!' he whispered, forcing an unnatural little laugh.
'The soft, wet, sticky things, half yellow and half white,' she began, resenting his laughter, 'always moving, and never looking twice the same—'
Then, before he could stop her, she stopped of her own accord.
She clutched his arm. He understood that it was the closeness of the thing that had inspired the atrocious words. She held his arm so tightly that it hurt. They stood in the presence of others than themselves.
Yet these Others had not come to them. The movement of approach was not really movement at
