I wondered if ever since
the world began, the young god of beautee looking down from his
crystal throne had beheld a stranger ritual of adoration!
Silently we drew back from the door-way, and Madame closed the door,
reducing the promethean groans and the strong ammoniacal odors. I
did not see the face of Carpenter, because he had turned it from us.
Rosythe favored me with a smile, and whispered, "Your friend doesn't
care for beautee!" Then he added, "What do you suppose he meant by
that stuff about 'the price of life' and 'the choice of God?'"
"Didn't you really get it?" I asked.
"I'm damned if I did."
"My dear fellow," I said, "you didn't tell us what sort of place
this was; and Carpenter thought it must be a maternity-ward."
The moving picture critic of the Western City "Times" gave me one
wild look; then from his throat there came a sound like the sudden
bleat of a young sheep in pain. It caused Carpenter to start, and
Madame Planchet to start, and for the first time since we entered
the place, the birds of paradise gave signs of life elsewhere than
in the eye-muscles.
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