there are so many books one has to read, I wonder how
any one can find time for those that are merely amusing."
"The beautiful part of it," Laura Glyde murmured, "is surely
just this—that no one can tell how 'The Wings of Death'
ends. Osric Dane, overcome by the awful significance of
her own meaning, has mercifully veiled it—perhaps even
from herself—as Apelles, in representing the sacrifice of
Iphigenia, veiled the face of Agamemnon."
"What's that? Is it poetry?" whispered Mrs. Leveret to
Mrs. Plinth, who, disdaining a definite reply, said coldly:
"You should look it up. I always make it a point to look
things up." Her tone added—"though I might easily have
it done for me by the footman."
"I was about to say," Miss Van Vluyck resumed, "that it
must always be a question whether a book can instruct
unless it elevates."
"Oh—" murmured Mrs. Leveret, now feeling herself hope-
lessly astray.
"I don't know," said Mrs. Ballinger, scenting in Miss Van
Vluyck's tone a tendency to depreciate the coveted dis-
tinction of entertaining Osric Dane; "I don't know that such
a question can seriously be raised as to a book which has
attracted more attention among thoughtful people than
any novel since 'Robert Elsmere.' "
"Oh, but don't you see," exclaimed Laura Glyde, "that
it's just the dark hopelessness of it all—the wonderful
tone-scheme of black on black—that makes it such an
artistic achievement? It reminded me when I read it of
HYLAND
