"Say two Pucks, Harry, or Rosalie will moralize. Ariel was a wicked little sprite. He used to go on bats."
Rosalie lifted a finger of reproof.
"But from my standpoint a dash of wickedness is just the sine qua non in art. How fascinating the Inferno is! And how tame the Paradiso! In art, do I say? In religion itself? What the horizon line is to the landscape—a rare pageant you have before you, Mrs. Arnold—such is the fall in the garden to the faith of our fathers."
"Do you mean that it separates earth from heaven?" laughed Harry.
"You would think, to hear this grumbler, it was his strait-laced sister and not his own laziness that prevented him from—" Rosalie hesitated.
"From amounting to something. Say it out. Ah, Rosalie, you have indeed achieved. Your Rosalind is divine, Carp says—and surely Carp knows."
"And Portia," added Harry.
"While my medallions——"
"Would be glorious if they were ever finished. But come," continued Harry, "I must dress for my wager. Where's Indigo?"
"He is about the house, Harry."