forefinger, pinched out a portion of the atmosphere.
“That! That George! For that is Art! And Art is justice! And justice, affronted, demands an answer.”
He refolded his arms, mused for a space, then stealing a veiled glance sideways:
“You—you are—ah—convinced that my two lost lambs need dread no bodily vicissitudes——”
“Cybele and Lissa?”
“Ah—yes——”
“Lethbridge will have money to burn if he likes the aroma of the smoke. Harrow has burnt several stacks already; but his father will continue to fire the furnace. Is that what you mean?”
“No!” said the poet softly, “no, George, that is not what I mean. Wealth is a great thing. Only the little things are precious to me. And the most precious of all is absolutely nothing!” But, as he wandered away into the great luxurious habitation of his son-in-law, his smile grew sweeter and sweeter and his half-closed eyes swam, melting into a saccharine reverie.
“The little things,” he murmured, thumbing
the air absently—“the little things are precious, but not as precious as absolutely nothing. For nothing is perfection. Thank you,” he said sweetly to a petrified footman, “thank you for understanding. It is precious—very, very precious to know that I am understood.”