that was his strength. Clarke’s style possessed at once the chiselled chasteness of a Greek marble column and the elaborate deviltry of the late Renaissance. At times his winged words seemed to flutter down the page frantically like Baroque angels; at other times nothing could have more adequately described his manner than the timeless calm of the gaunt pyramids.
The two men had reached the street. Reginald wrapped his long spring coat round him.
“I shall expect you to-morrow at four,” he said.
The tone of his voice was deep and melodious, suggesting hidden depths and cadences.
“I shall be punctual.”
The younger man’s voice trembled as he spoke.