“You look up to your ears in work,” said he, his eyes upon the books.
Ashton-Kirk smiled.
“On the contrary, I’ve been resting,” he answered, his gaze also upon the books, and filled with the mist which comes of deep plunges into the past, or into the annals of lands that never were. “When I’m overtaxed or too tightly strung there’s nothing so relaxes me as the ancient romances; there’s nothing near so quieting as the sayings of the wise old monks, spoken in the cool of the cloisters.”
Mr. Scanlon nodded appreciatively.
“Personally, I’m very strong for all those old fellows,” said he. “They had speed, control and change of pace.”
“Their greatest charm is their simplicity,” said Ashton-Kirk, as he refilled his pipe. “They believed things as children believe them. Their days were rare with faith; their nights with wonders. But,” and there was regret in the speaker’s voice, “the world has turned many times since then. There are no more wonders; and surprise, as they knew it, has ceased to exist.”
Mr. Bat Scanlon, one time athlete and gambler, but now a handler of champions, brushed the first short plume of ash from his cigar. He shook his head.
“Wrong!” stated he, confidently. “Altogether wrong. You get behind the scenes too much; you see the insides of things too often. Wonder is as thick as ever it was; and surprise is still on the job. If there’s any falling off, it’s in ourselves. We’ve grown cross-eyed looking at fakes; we haven’t the vision to know a wonder when we see it.”
A volume of Burton lay upon the table at his hand. He picked it up.
“Here’s Bagdad,” said he, riffling the pages, sharply. “Bagdad, a city stuffed with strangeness. But,” and he looked at Ashton-Kirk, earnestly, “had it really anything on this town of ours? Were its nights deeper? its silences more mysterious? I think not. Let any man—with his eyes open—mind you—go out into one of our nights, and he’ll meet with as many astonishments as Haroun Al Raschid, the best prowler of them all.”