There are times when silence
seems to be sacred, even unaccountably so. A feeling is in us that to
speak would be almost a sacrilege, though we are unable to account in
any way for the pause. At such moments every one seems instinctively to
feel the same influence, and the first person who breaks the spell
either experiences a sensation of awkwardness, and says something very
foolish, or, conscious of the odds against him, delivers himself of a
sentiment of ponderous severity and sententiousness. As I smoked,
watching the great flaming bowl of the water pipe, a little coal, forced
up by the expansion of the heat, toppled over the edge and fell tinkling
on the metal foot below. The quick ear of the servant on the steps
caught the sound, and he rose and came forward to trim the fire. Though
he did not speak, his act was a diversion. The spell was broken.
"The Germans," said Isaacs, "say that an angel is passing over the
house. I do not believe it."
I was surprised at the remark. It did not seem quite natural for Mr.
Isaacs to begin talking about the Germans, and from the tone of his
voice I could almost have fancied he thought the proverb was held as an
article of faith by the Teutonic races in general.
"I do not believe it," he repeated reflectively. "There is no such thing
as an angel 'passing'; it is a misuse of terms.
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