His daughters looked at him; a young woman expensively but not smartly gowned bent forward from the row behind. Her attitude was almost prayerful; her eyes burned.
“Art,” continued the poet, opening his heavy lids with a large, sweet smile, “Art
is above Art, but Art is never below Art. Art, to be Art, must be artless. That is a very precious thought—very, very precious. Thank you for understanding me—thank you.” And he included in his large smile young Harrow, who had been unconsciously bending forward, hypnotized by the monotonous resonance of the poet’s deep, rich voice.
Now that the spell was broken, he sank back in his chair, looking at Lethbridge a little wildly.
“Let me sit next—after the first act,” began Lethbridge, coaxing; “they’ll be watching the stage all the first act and you can look at ’em without being rude, and they’ll do the same next act, and I can look at ’em, and perhaps they’ll ask us what Art really is——”
“Did you hear what that man said?” interrupted Harrow, recovering his voice. “Did you?”
“No; what?”
“Well, listen next time. And all I have to say is, if that firing-line, with its battery of innocent blue eyes, understands him, you and I had better apply to the nearest night-school for the rudiments of an education.”
“Well, what did he say?” began the other
uneasily, when again the poet bent forward to address the firing-line; and the lovely blue battery turned silently upon the author of their being.