He laughed.
“Too much for me. I started Sordello once. Pity he would try to rhyme prose instead of singing songs.” He looked over her shoulder, his eyes caught by the italics that laced the close print like birds’ voices ringing through a wood. “Ah—that’s better! Flower o’ the rose——What is it?”
“Lippi. You know! Oliver was mad about it. Oliver always said that Browning was a painter spoiled himself.”
He nodded.
“Shouldn’t wonder. Oliver generally knew what he was talking about. That now—
Flower o’ the peach,
Death for us all, and his own life for each!
Now that’s good. That’s likeable. That’s poetry and truth too. But the rest goes wrenching and jerking along like—like Vulcan. Club-foot divinity.”
Again she was astonished. It was what she had always thought—but that he should think so too—should put it into words for her—was epoch-making. She was overwhelmed by the remorseful conviction that she had always and systematically undervalued him. She was so much occupied by that discovery that she did not notice, till he called to her to “listen to this rot” that the book had slid from her hand to his, that he was settling into his chair, preparing to see-saw delightfully, abolishing Browning and relenting to Browning, for the rest of the morning.
It was not quite what Laura wanted; but it was very pleasant.