..."
"Good. I hope we shall have some more of it pretty soon."
"To-day?"
"Not exactly to-day. I've got some other things to think about."
"Such as?"
"Well, I expect you're going to be invited here to dinner pretty soon?"
"So? I've been invited here to dinner before this."
"But another day has come. A new light has risen. I haven't seen it, but
I've heard it. I've heard it sing."
"A light singing? Aren't you getting mixed?"
"Oh, I don't know. There was Viollet-le-Duc and the rose-window of Notre
Dame. They took him there as a child for a choral service, and he thought
it was the rose itself that sang. And there was Petrarch, and the young
Milton--both talking about 'melodious tears'--and something of the same
sort in 'The Blessed Damosel.' And----"
"A psychological catch for which there ought to be a name. Perhaps there
_is_ a name."
"Well, as I say, the light rose, shone, and sang. I didn't see it--I never
see anybody. But his voice came up here quite distinctly. It seemed good to
have a man in the house. Those everlasting girls--I hope he wasn't
bothering to sing for _them_.
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