"You shattered it."
"To the Undying Voices."
"You stilled them, for me."
"Oh, Ban! Not that!" A sudden, little sob wrenched at her throat. She
half thrust out a hand toward him, and withdrew it, to cup and hold her
chin in the old, thoughtful posture that plucked at his heart with
imperious memories. "Don't they sing for you any more?" begged Io,
wistful as a child forlorn for a dream of fairies dispelled.
"I wouldn't let them. They all sang of you."
She sighed, but about the tender corners of her lips crept the tremor of
a smile. Instantly she became serious again.
"If you still heard the Voices, you could never have written that
editorial.... What I hate about it is that it has charm; that it imparts
charm to a--to a debasing thing."
"Oh, come, Io!" protested the victim of this criticism, more easily.
"Debasing? Why, Wheelwright is considered the most uplifting of all our
literary morality-improvers."
Io amplified and concluded her critique briefly and viciously. "A slug!"
"No; seriously. I'm not sure that he doesn't inculcate a lot of good in
his way. At least he's always on the side of the angels."
"What kind of angels? Tinsel seraphs with paint on their cheeks, playing
rag-time harps out of tune! There's a sickly slaver of sentiment over
everything he touches that would make any virtue nauseous.
Pages:
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542