“Pure prehuman and micro-organic chemistry,” Aaron broke in. “The reactions of cell-elements to the doggerel punch of the wave-lengths of sunlight, the foundation of all folk-songs and rag-times. Terrence completes his circle right there and stultifies all his windiness. Now listen to me, and I will present—”
“But wait,” Paula pleaded. “Mr. Graham argues that English puritanism barred music, real music, for centuries....”
“True,” said Terrence.
“And that England had to win to its sensuous delight in rhythm through Milton and Shelley—”
“Who was a metaphysician.” Aaron broke in.
“A lyrical metaphysician,” Terrence defined instantly. “That you must acknowledge, Aaron.”
“And Swinburne?” Aaron demanded, with a significance that tokened former arguments.
“He says Offenbach was the fore-runner of Arthur Sullivan,” Paula cried challengingly. “And that Auber was before Offenbach. And as for Wagner, ask him, just ask him—”
And she slipped away, leaving Graham to his fate. He watched her, watched the perfect knee-lift of her draperies as she crossed to Mrs. Mason and set about arranging bridge quartets, while dimly he could hear Terrence beginning:
“It is agreed that music was the basis of inspiration of all the arts of the Greeks....”