He smiled largely on Harrow, whose eyes had become wild again.
“That!” he repeated, pinching out another molecule of atmosphere, “and that!” punching dent after dent in the viewless void with inverted thumb.
On the hapless youth the overpowering sweetness of his smile acted like an anesthetic; he saw things waver, even wabble; and his hidden clutch on Lissa’s fingers tightened spasmodically.
“Thank you,” said the poet, leaning forward to fix the young man with his heavy-lidded eyes. “Thank you for the precious thoughts you inspire in me. Bless you. Our mental and esthetic commune has been very precious to me—very, very precious,” he mooned bulkily, his rich voice dying to a resonant, soothing drone.
Lissa turned to the petrified young man. “Please be clever some more,” she whispered. “You were so perfectly delightful about this play.”
“Child!” he groaned, “I have scarcely sufficient intellect to keep me overnight. You
must know that I haven’t understood one single thing your father has been kind enough to say.”
“What didn’t you understand?” she asked, surprised.
“’That!’” He flourished his thumb. “What does ’That!’ mean?”
“Oh, that is only a trick father has caught from painters who tell you how they’re going to use their brushes. But the truth is I’ve usually noticed that they do most of their work in the air with their thumbs.... What else did you not understand?”