chair.

"The only kind that count. It tells you with a perfection that
seems to me quite final all the author thinks, for instance, about
the advent of the 'larger latitude.'"

"Where does it do that?" asked Mr. Morrow, who had picked up the
second volume and was insincerely thumbing it.

"Everywhere--in the whole treatment of his case. Extract the
opinion, disengage the answer--those are the real acts of homage."

Mr. Morrow, after a minute, tossed the book away. "Ah but you
mustn't take me for a reviewer."

"Heaven forbid I should take you for anything so dreadful! You
came down to perform a little act of sympathy, and so, I may
confide to you, did I. Let us perform our little act together.
These pages overflow with the testimony we want: let us read them
and taste them and interpret them. You'll of course have perceived
for yourself that one scarcely does read Neil Paraday till one
reads him aloud; he gives out to the ear an extraordinary full
tone, and it's only when you expose it confidently to that test
that you really get near his style. Take up your book again and
let me listen, while you pay it out, to that wonderful fifteenth
chapter. If you feel you can't do it justice, compose yourself to
attention while I produce for you--I think I can!--this scarcely
less admirable ninth."

Mr. Morrow gave me a straight look which was as hard as a blow