But there were other exquisite
sensations too. Happiness, as of flooding summer sunshine, poured
through him.
'He'll come with a rush. Look out!' felt Jimbo--'felt' expressing
'thought' and 'said' together, for no single word can convey the
double operation thus combined in ordinary life.
The reality of it caught him by the throat.
'This,' he exclaimed, 'is real and actual. It is happening to me now!'
He looked from the pile of clothes taken off two hours ago--goodness,
what a mass!--to the children's figures in the middle of the room. And
one was as real as the other. The moods of the day and evening, their
play and nonsense, had all passed away. He had crossed a gulf that
stood between this moment and those good-nights in the Pension. This
was as real as anything in life; more real than death. Reality--he
caught the obvious thought pass thickly through the body on the bed--
is what has been experienced. Death, for that reason, is not real, not
realised; dinner is. And this was real because he had been through it,
though long forgotten it. Jimbo stood aside and 'felt' directions.
'Don't push,' he said.
'Just think and wish,' added Monkey with a laugh.
It was her laugh, and perhaps the beauty of her big brown eyes as
well, that got him finally loose. For the laughter urged some queer,
deep yearning in him towards a rush of exquisite accomplishment.
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