As verse succeeded verse the voices thrilled with an ever intenser excitement. The sense of the Coming’s imminence was like an electric tension in the air. The President switched off the music and， with the final note of the final stanza， there was absolute silence–the silence of stretched expectancy， quivering and creeping with a galvanic life. The President reached out his hand； and suddenly a Voice， a deep strong Voice， more musical than any merely human voice， richer， warmer， more vibrant with love and yearning and compassion， a wonderful， mysterious， supernatural Voice spoke from above their heads. Very slowly， “Oh， Ford， Ford， Ford，” it said diminishingly and on a descending scale. A sensation of warmth radiated thrillingly out from the solar plexus to every extremity of the bodies of those who listened； tears came into their eyes； their hearts， their bowels seemed to move within them， as though with an independent life. “Ford！” they were melting， “Ford！” dissolved， dissolved. Then， in another tone， suddenly， startlingly. “Listen！” trumpeted the voice. “Listen！” They listened. After a pause， sunk to a whisper， but a whisper， somehow， more penetrating than the loudest cry. “The feet of the Greater Being，” it went on， and repeated the words： “The feet of the Greater Being.” The whisper almost expired. “The feet of the Greater Being are on the stairs.” And once more there was silence； and the expectancy， momentarily relaxed， was stretched again， tauter， tauter， almost to the tearing point. The feet of the Greater Being–oh， they heard thern， they heard them， coming softlydown the stairs， coming nearer and nearer down the invisible stairs. The feet of the Greater Being. And suddenly the tearing point was reached. Her eyes staring， her lips parted. Morgana Rothschild sprang to her feet.
“I hear him，” she cried. “I hear him.”
“He’s coming，” shouted Sarojini Engels.
“Yes， he’s coming， I hear him.” Fifi Bradlaugh and Tom Kawaguchi rose simultaneously to their feet.
“Oh， oh， oh！” Joanna inarticulately testified.
“He’s coming！” yelled Jim Bokanovsky.
The President leaned forward and， with a touch， released a delirium of cymbals and blown brass， a fever of tom-tomming.
“Oh， he’s coming！” screamed Clara Deterding. “Aie！” and it was as though she were having her throat cut.
Feeling that it was time for him to do something， Bernard also jumped up and shouted： “I hear him； He’s coming.” But it wasn’t true. He heard nothing and， for him， nobody was coming. Nobody–in spite of the music， in spite of the mounting excitement. But he waved his arms， he shouted with the best of them； and when the others began to jig and stamp and shuffle， he also jigged and shuffled.
Round they went， a circular procession of dancers， each with hands on the hips of the dancer preceding， round and round， shouting in unison， stamping to the rhythm of the music with their feet， beating it， beating it out with hands on the buttocks in front； twelve pairs of hands beating as one； as one， twelve buttocks slabbily resounding. Twelve as one， twelve as one. “I hear Him， I hear Him coming.” The music quickened； faster beat the feet， faster， faster fell the rhythmic hands. And all at once a great synthetic bass boomed out the words which announced the approaching atonement and final consummation of solidarity， the coming of the Twelve-in-One， the incarnation of the Greater Being. “Orgy-porgy，” it sang， while the tom-toms continued to beat their feverish tattoo：
“Orgy-porgy， Ford and fun， Kiss the girls and make them One. Boys at one with girls at peace； Orgy-porgy gives release.”
“Orgy-porgy，” the dancers caught up the liturgical refrain， “Orgy-porgy， Ford and fun， kiss the girls…” And as they sang， the lights began slowly to fade–to fade and at the same time to grow warmer， richer， redder， until at last they were dancing in the crimson twilight of an Embryo Store. “Orgy-porgy…” In their blood-coloured and foetal darkness the dancers continued for a while to circulate， to beat and beat out the indefatigable rhythm. “Orgy-porgy…” Then the circle wavered， broke， fell in partial disintegration on the ring of couches which surrounded–circle enclosing circle–the table and its planetary chairs. “Orgy-porgy…” Tenderly the deep Voice crooned and cooed； in the red twilight it was as though some enormous negro dove were hovering benevolently over the now prone or supine dancers.
They were standing on the roof； Big Henry had just sung eleven. The night was calm and warm.
“Wasn’t it wonderful？” said Fifi Bradlaugh. “Wasn’t it simply wonderful？” She looked at Bernard with an expression of rapture， but of rapture in which there was no trace of agitation or excitement–for to be excited is still to be unsatisfied. Hers was the calm ecstasy of achieved consummation， the peace， not of mere vacant satiety and nothingness， but of balanced life， of energies at rest and in equilibrium. A rich and living peace. For the Solidarity Service had given as well as taken， drawn off only to replenish. She was full， she was made perfect， she was still more than merely herself. “Didn’t you think it was wonderful？” she insisted， looking into Bernard’s face with those supernaturally shining eyes.
“Yes， I thought it was wonderful，” he lied and looked away； the sight of her transfigured face was at once an accusation and an ironical reminder of his own separateness. He was as miserably isolated now as he had been when the service began–more isolated by reason of his unreplenished emptiness， his dead satiety. Separate and unatoned， while the others were being fused into the Greater Being； alone even in Morgana’s embrace–much more alone， indeed， more hopelessly himself than he had ever been in his life before. He had emerged from that crimson twilight into the common electric glare with a self-consciousness intensified to the pitch of agony. He was utterly miserable， and perhaps （her shining eyes accused him）， perhaps it was his own fault. “Quite wonderful，” he repeated； but the only thing he could think of was Morgana’s eyebrow.
