Clarke's marvellous conversational power was equalled only by his
marvellous style. Ernest Fielding's heart leaped in him at the thought
that henceforth he would be privileged to live under one roof with the
only writer of his generation who could lend to the English language the
rich strength and rugged music of the Elizabethans.
Reginald Clarke was a master of many instruments. Milton's mighty organ
was no less obedient to his touch than the little lute of the
troubadour. He was never the same; 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.
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