us he tells us with this perfection. My dear sir, the best interviewer's the best reader."
Mr. Morrow good-humouredly protested. "Do you mean to say that no other source of information should be opened to us?"
"None other till this particular one–by far the most copious–has been quite exhausted. Have you exhausted it, my dear sir? Had you exhausted it when you came down here? It seems to me in our time almost wholly neglected, and something should surely be done to restore its ruined credit. It's the course to which the artist himself at every step, and with such pathetic confidence, refers us. This last book of Mr. Paraday's is full of revelations."
"Revelations?" panted Mr. Morrow, whom I had forced again into his 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 will 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 quality, and it's only when you expose it confidently to
