“Why should I understand?”
“Your eyes,” answered Langdon.
He leaned closer and for a second stared into them. Then he rose and stood in front of Barnes.
“Why there’s a symphony in them,” he exclaimed. “A great, big tragic theme—of some sort!”
Barnes smiled grimly.
“If I were an artist,” he said, “I’d paint you as you stand there saying that, Langdon. There’s a big triumphant picture in you—of some sort!”
Barnes made his feet and for a moment the men stood side by side looking down upon the green valley which was slowly coming to life there below them. What a song it was; what a picture it was! The blazing sun was big enough to make both of it. For a second Barnes caught a flash of some hidden meaning in this thought. Then his face hardened; even the sun could not do both through one man alone.
Barnes turned abruptly.
“I’ll see you after breakfast, I suppose?”
“Yes,” answered Langdon, “I’ll come over early.”