"I was but retaliating. Hast thou not plagued
me, and may I not tease thee a little in revenge? Say on."
"My--but now I bethink me, I ought not to tell thee. It savors of that
which so offends thy nice sense of gentility--labor," he said, sinking
back in his easy attitude again.
"Fie, Kenkenes," she said. "Hath some one put thy slavish love of toil
under ban? Does that oppress thee?" He reproved her with a pat on the
nearest hand.
"The king toils; the priests toil; the powers of the world labor. None
but the beautiful idle may be idle, and that for their beauty's sake.
Nay, it is not that I may not work, but I may not work as I wish and I
am heart-sick therefore."
His last words ended in a tone of genuine dejection. His eyes were
fixed on the grass of the nook and his brows had knitted slightly. The
expression was a rare one for his face and in its way becoming--for the
moment at least. The hand he had patted drew nearer, and at last,
after a little hesitancy, was laid on his black hair. He lifted his
face and took cheer, from the light in her eyes, to proceed.
"Since I may speak," he began, "I shall. Ta-meri, thou knowest that as
a sculptor I work within limits. The stature of mine art must crouch
under the bounds of the ritual.
Pages:
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78