His thoughts halted; he became aware that the poet was speaking in a rich, resonant voice, and he listened in an attitude of painful politeness.
“It’s the little things that are most precious,”
the poet was saying, and pinched the air with forefinger and thumb and pursed up his lips as though to whistle some saccharine air.
“The little things,” he continued, delicately perforating the atmosphere as though selecting a diatom.
“Big things go, too,” ventured Wayne.
“No,” said the poet; “no—or rather they do go, in a certain sense, for every little thing is precious, and therefore little things are big!—-big with portent, big in value. Do you follow me, Mr. Wayne?”
Wayne’s fascinated eyes were fixed on the poet. The latter picked out another atom from the atmosphere and held it up for Mr. Wayne’s inspection; and while that young man’s eyes protruded the poet rambled on and on until the melody of his voice became a ceaseless sound, a vague, sustained monotone, which seemed to bore into Wayne’s brain until his legs twitched with a furious desire for flight.
When he obtained command of himself the poet was saying, “It is my hour for withdrawal. It were insincere and artificial to ask your indulgence——”
He rose to his rotund height.
“You are due to sit in your cage,” stammered Wayne, comprehending.