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 between the eyes; he had turned rather red, and a question had formed itself in his mind which reached my sense as distinctly as if he had uttered it: "What sort of a damned fool are _you_ ?" Then he got up, gathering together his hat and gloves, buttoning his coat, projecting hungrily all over the place the big transparency of his mask.