It was a breakdown unparalleled in his history. Never since his childhood had he neglected the aspirate in Homer. A flush made manifest his agony. He frowned, and gazed at her steadily, as if he defied her to judge him by that lapse.
"Yes," said the lady; but she was not thinking of Homer.
"By Jove," he murmured pensively. His eyes turned from her and devoured the text. He was torn between abject admiration of the lady and of the book.
"Which do you like best?" he asked suddenly. Æschylus or Sophocles? But it's an absurd question."
"Why absurd?"
"Because they're so different."
"Are they?" To tell the truth she was not thinking of them any more than she had been thinking of Homer.
He became perfectly hectic with excitement. "Rather! Can't you see the difference? Sophocles carved his tragedies. He carved them in ivory, polished them up, back and front, till you can't see the marks of the chisel. And Æschylus jabbed his out of the naked granite where it stood, and left them there with the sea at their feet, and the mist round their heads, and the fire at their hearts."
"But—but he left the edges a little rough."
"He did. God leaves them so sometimes when he's making a big thing."