Mrs. Plinth and Mrs. Ballinger exchanged scandalised glances, and the latter said: “I should hardly advise you to read ‘The Wings of Death,’ in that spirit. For my part, when there are so many books that one HAS to read, I wonder how any one can find time for those that are merely amusing.” “The beautiful part of it,” Laura Glyde murmured, “is surely just this--that no one can tell HOW ‘The Wings of Death’ ends. Osric Dane, overcome by the dread significance of her own meaning, has mercifully veiled it--perhaps even from herself--as Apelles, in representing the sacrifice of Iphigenia, veiled the face of Agamemnon.” “What’s that? Is it poetry?” whispered Mrs. Leveret nervously to Mrs. Plinth, who, disdaining a definite reply, said coldly: “You should look it up. I always make it a point to look things up.” Her tone added--“though I might easily have it done for me by the footman.” “I was about to say,” Miss Van Vluyck resumed, “that it must always be a question whether a book CAN instruct unless it elevates.” “Oh--” murmured Mrs. Leveret, now feeling herself hopelessly astray. “I don’t know,” said Mrs. Ballinger, scenting in Miss Van Vluyck’s tone a tendency to depreciate the coveted distinction of entertaining Osric Dane; “I don’t know that such a question can seriously be raised as to a book which has attracted more attention among thoughtful people than any novel since ‘Robert Elsmere.’” “Oh, but don’t you see,” exclaimed Laura Glyde, “that it’s just the dark hopelessness of it all--the wonderful tone-scheme of black on black--that makes it such an artistic achievement? It reminded me so when I read it of Prince Rupert’s MANIÈRE NOIRE... the book is etched, not painted, yet one feels the colour values so intensely...” “Who is HE?” Mrs. Leveret whispered to her neighbour. “Some one she’s met abroad?” “The wonderful part of the book,” Mrs. Ballinger conceded, “is that it may be looked at from so many points of view. I hear that as a study of determinism Professor Lupton ranks it with ‘The Data of Ethics.’” “I’m told that Osric Dane spent ten years in preparatory studies before beginning to write it,” said Mrs. Plinth. “She looks up everything--verifies everything. It has always been my principle, as you know. Nothing would induce me, now, to put aside a book before I’d finished it, just because I can buy as many more as I want.” “And what do YOU think of ‘The Wings of Death’?” Mrs. Roby abruptly asked her.