Harrow turned. “Lissa,” he whispered in an exquisitely modulated voice, “what would happen if I spoke to your sister Cybele?”
“Why, she’d answer you, silly!” said the girl, laughing. “Wouldn’t you, Cybele?”
“I’ll tell you what I’d like to do,” said Cybele,
leaning forward: “I’d like very much to talk to that attractive man who is trying to look at me—only your head has been in the way.” And she smiled innocently at Lethbridge.
So Lissa moved down one. Harrow took her seat, and Cybele dropped gaily into Harrow’s vacant place.
“Now,” she said to Lethbridge, “we can tell each other all sorts of things. I was so glad that you looked at me all the while and so vexed that I couldn’t talk to you. How do you like my new gown? And what is your name? Have you ever before seen a play? I haven’t, and my name is Cybele.”
“It is per—perfectly heavenly to hear you talk,” stammered Lethbridge.
Harrow heard him, turned and looked him full in the eyes, then slowly resumed his attitude of attention: for the poet was speaking:
“The Art of Barnard Haw is the quintessence of simplicity. What is the quintessence of simplicity?” He lifted one heavy pudgy hand, joined the tips of his soft thumb and forefinger, and selecting an atom of air, deftly
captured it. “That is the quintessence of simplicity; that is Art!”