They were all obviously of his own class; he could
perfectly imagine his mother, with her old lace and Roman mosaics,
moving at home among them, and the bishop, with his wise, kindly
smile. Yet he was irresistibly reminded of a certain haunting dream
of his childhood in which he had seemed to himself to walk the world
alone, with every one else allied against him because they all knew
something that he did not know. That was it, he thought suddenly,
and felt his pulse quickening at the intimation: _They all knew
something that he did not know_, that he could not know. But, as
they swept him with their clear-eyed, impersonal look, a look
that seemed in some exquisite fashion to take no account of
individuality, he was gratefully aware of a curious impression
that they would like to have had him know, too.
"They wish I knew--they'd rather I did know," St. George found
himself thinking in a strange excitement, "if only I could know--if
only I could know."
He looked about him, smiling a little at his folly.
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