Looking up as she spoke he saw her eyes fixed on him with a
curious sympathy. And as he thought of the possible destiny of the
Euripides he felt guilty as of a treachery towards her in loving the
same book.
"Do you read Euripides?" he asked with naive wonder.
"Yes."
"And AEschylus and Sophocles and Aristoph--?" Mr. Rickman became
embarrassed as he recalled certain curious passages, and in his
embarrassment he rushed upon his doom--"and--and 'Omer?"
It was a breakdown unparalleled in his history. Never since his
childhood had he neglected the aspirate in Homer. A flush made
manifest his agony. He frowned, and gazed at her steadily, as if he
defied her to judge him by that lapse.
"Yes," said the lady; but she was not thinking of Homer.
"By Jove," he murmured pensively. His eyes turned from her and
devoured the text. He was torn between abject admiration of the lady
and of the book.
"Which do you like best?" he asked suddenly. AEschylus or Sophocles?
But it's an absurd question."
"Why absurd?"
"Because they're so different."
"Are they?" To tell the truth she was not thinking of them any more
than she had been thinking of Homer.
He became perfectly hectic with excitement. "Rather! Can't you see the
difference? Sophocles carved his tragedies. He carved them in ivory,
polished them up, back and front, till you can't see the marks of the
chisel. And AEschylus jabbed his out of the naked granite where it
stood, and left them there with the sea at their feet, and the mist
round their heads, and the fire at their hearts.
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