Crammon nodded. But a surprised look sought the younger man, a look that seemed to ask: Of what stuff are you made?
About him, delicate, noble, proud, there was an icy air—the infinitely glassy clarity that rests on mountains before the dawn.
THE GLOBE ON THE FINGERTIPS OF AN ELF
I
Crammon had been a true prophet. Ten months had sufficed to fix the eyes of the world upon the dancer, Eva Sorel. The great newspapers coupled her name with the celebrated ones of the earth; her art was regarded everywhere as the fine flower of its age.
All those to whose restless spiritual desires she had given form and body were at her feet. The leaders of sorely driven humanity drew a breath and looked up to her. The adorers of form and the proclaimers of new rhythms vied for a smile from her lips.
She remained calm and austere with herself. Sometimes the noise of plaudits wearied her. Hard beset by the vast promises of greedy managers, she felt not rarely a breath of horror. Her inner vision, fixed upon a far and ideal goal, grew dim at the stammered thanks of the easily contented. These, it seemed to her, would cheat her. Then she fled to Susan Rappard and was scolded for her pains.
“We wandered out to conquer the world,” said Susan, “and the world has submitted almost without a struggle. Why don’t you enjoy your triumph?”
“What my hands hold and my eyes grasp gives me no cause to feel very triumphant yet,” Eva answered.