and denouncement of his father and the fellow elders.
He remembered, from collegiate hours, the passion of the Greeks for sheer earthly strength and loveliness—Helen and Menelaus, Sappho on the green promontories of Lesbos. At the time of his reading he had maintained a wry brow . . . now Elim Meikeljohn could comprehend the siege of Troy.
He said aloud, without thinking and instantly aghast at his words:
"You are like a bodied song." He was horrified; then his newer spirit utterly possessed him, he didn't care; he nodded his long solemn head.
Rosemary Roselle turned toward him with a cool stare that was lost in irresistible ringing peals of laughter.
"Oh!" she gasped; "what a face for a compliment. It was just like pouring sirup out of a vinegar cruet."
He became annoyed and cleared his throat in an elder-like manner, but her amusement strung out in silvery chuckles.
"It's the first I've said of the kind," he admitted stiffly; "I've no doubt it came awkward."
She grew more serious, studied him with thoughtful eyes. "Do you know," she said slowly, "I believe you. Compliments in Virginia are like cherries, the trees are full of them; they're nice but worth—so much." She measured an infinitesimal degree with a rosy nail against a finger. "But I can see that yours are different. They almost hurt you, don't they?"
He made no reply, struggling weakly against what, he perceived, was to follow.
"You're like a song that to hear would draw a man
