"One requires rest there," said her godmother; "for the demon of unrest hath got us in this lower sphere."
"And it's quite right that it should be so, godmother mine; and in keeping with our ceaseless song of 'I'd be a butterfly.'"
"You are a clever actress, Miss Vernon," said Bertram; "but I am inclined to think there is a latent depth of character, a womanliness in you that our gay butterflies of fashion lack."
"You flatter me, Mr. Bertram."
"Not so, Miss Vernon; in our day there is much to make even a woman think; you are a thinking woman, still one has but to look at your eyes to know that in spite of your graver moods you have a keen zest for what is pleasant in—"
"In this 'Vale of Tears,'" put in Douglas.
Vaura's bright expressive eyes smiled, as looking upwards, she said, feelingly:
"Yes, even though 'much salt water here doth go to waste,' one must— some think, not I—support the weeping human who named our pleasant world a 'Vale of Tears.' No, 'tis better to let one's thoughts dwell on the song of the nightingale than the voice of the night-bat; We fear too much, and hope too little; 'tis best to dwell in the sunlight while we may."
"Yes, 'tis better to laugh than be crying," said Lady Esmondet; "and though one must go through life with one's eyes open, one need not follow the example of Matthew Arnold's 'Sick King in Bokhara,' and keep them only open to the saddening sights of sin, sorrow, and despair, that the world we know, somewhere, has so much of; one can only do what one can for those in distress; give one's mite, and give it with a kindly smile, in our world of so much to do."
"So many worlds so much to do, so little done such things to be," half sang Vaura; "but here we are at the French port, and so soon."