It was familiar to
Baruch, but like all ideas of that quality and magnitude--and there
are not many of them--it was always new and affected him like a
starry night, seen hundreds of times, yet for ever infinite and
original.
But was it Maimonides which kept him till the porter began to put up
the shutters? Was he pondering exclusively upon God as the folio lay
open before him? He did think about Him, but whether he would have
thought about Him for nearly twenty minutes if Clara had not been
there is another matter.
'Do you walk home alone?' he said as she gave the proof to the boy
who stood waiting.
'Yes, always.'
'I am going to see Marshall to-night, but I must go to Newman Street
first. I shall be glad to walk with you, if you do not mind
diverging a little.'
She consented and they went along Oxford Street without speaking, the
roar of the carriages and waggons preventing a word.
They turned, however, into Bloomsbury, and were able to hear one
another. He had much to say and he could not begin to say it. There
was a great mass of something to be communicated pent up within him,
and he would have liked to pour it all out before her at once. It is
just at such times that we often take up as a means of expression and
relief that which is absurdly inexpressive and irrelevant.
'I have not seen your sister yet; I hope I may see her this evening.
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