In Delos once, hard
by the altar of Apollo, I saw a young palm-tree shooting up with
even such a grace.'
Yes, yes; THAT was not written at so many pages a day, with a
workhouse clock clanging its admonition at the poet's ear. How it
freshened the soul! How the eyes grew dim with a rare joy in the
sounding of those nobly sweet hexameters!
Amy came into the room again.
'Listen,' said Reardon, looking up at her with a bright smile.
'Do you remember the first time that I read you this?'
And he turned the speech into free prose. Amy laughed.
'I remember it well enough. We were alone in the drawing-room; I
had told the others that they must make shift with the dining-
room for that evening. And you pulled the book out of your pocket
unexpectedly. I laughed at your habit of always carrying little
books about.'
The cheerful news had brightened her. If she had been summoned to
hear lamentations her voice would not have rippled thus
soothingly. Reardon thought of this, and it made him silent for a
minute.
'The habit was ominous,' he said, looking at her with an
uncertain smile.
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