He figured it, sitting quietly back in the reading-room, listening to the Debate, watching the faces around him, as the tracing of some one who was dearly loved.

There was nothing stranger in it all than his own certainty that the Power that pursued him was tender.

And here he crossed the division between the Real and the Unreal, because his present consciousness of this Power was as actual as his consciousness of the chairs and tables that filled the reading-room.
That was the essential thing that made the supreme gulf between himself and his companions.

It was not because he had murdered Carfax but because he was now absolutely conscious of God that he was so alone.

He could not touch his human companions, he could scarcely see them.