To-day—although the morning has been threatening—is now quite fine. Tired of sulking, it cleared up half an hour ago, and is now throwing out a double portion of heat, as though to make up for its early deficiencies.
The
"King of the East, ... girt
With song and flame and fragrance, slowly lifts
His golden feet on those empurpled stairs
That climb into the windy halls of heaven,"
and, casting his million beams abroad, enlivens the whole earth.
It is a day when one might saunter but not walk, when one might dream though wide awake, when one is perforce amiable because argument or contradiction would be too great an exertion.
Sir Guy—who has been making a secret though exhaustive search through the house for Miss Chesney—now turns his steps toward the orchard, where already instinct has taught him she is usually to be found.
He is not looking quite so insouciant, or carelessly happy, as when first we saw him, now two weeks ago; there is a little gnawing, dissatisfied feeling at his heart, for which he dare not account even to himself.