n size; the rents of passion softened into lines of thought;
wisdom and benignity sat upon his brows; and he was calm and still as
the Sphinx in the desert.

Snarley stood with his hands linked behind his back, looking straight
before him into the distance; and Chandrapal, without changing his
attitude, was watching him as before. As the two men stood there in
silence, my impression was, and still is, that they were in
communication, through filaments that lie hidden, like electric cables,
in the deeps of consciousness. Each man was organically one with the
other; the division between them was no greater than between two cells
in a single brain; the understanding was complete. Thus it remained for
some seconds; then the silence was broken by speech, and it was as
though a cloud had passed over the sun. For, with the first word spoken,
misunderstanding began; and, for a time at all events, they drifted far
apart, each out of sight and knowledge of the other's soul. Had Snarley
begun by saying something inconsequent or irrelevant, had he proposed to
build three tabernacles, or cried, "Depart from me, for I am a sinful
man," or quoted the words of some inapplicable Scripture that was being
fulfilled--there might have been no rupture. But, as it was, he spoke to
the point, and instantly the tie was snapped.

"Them words you spoke just now," he said, and paused. Then, completing
the sentence--"them words was full o' _sense_."

I could see that Chandrapal was troubled. The word "sense" woke up
trains of consciousness quite alien to the intention of the speaker. To
his non-English mind this usage of the word, if not unknown, was at
least misleading.

He replied, "Those words have nothing to do with 'sense.' Yet you seemed
to understand them."

"Not a bit," said Snarley. "But I _felt_ 'em. They burnt me like fire.
Good words is allus like that. There's some words wi' meanin' in 'em,
but no sense; and they're fool's words, most on 'em. You understand 'em,
but you don't feel 'em. But when they comes wi' a bit of a smack, I
knows they're all right. You can a'most taste 'em and smell 'em when
they're the right sort--just like a drop o' drink. It's a pity you
didn't hear Mrs. Abel when she give us that piece o' poetry. That's the
sort o' words folks ought to use. You can feel 'em in your bones. Well,
as I was a-sayin', your words was like that. They come at me smack,
smack. And I sez to myself as soon as I hears 'em, 'That's a