And then the faithless Dulce laughs too; the most musical, ringing little laugh in the world, but none the less galling for all its sweetness. It is the last straw. Mr. Gower, suppressing a very natural inclination, lays the book down gently on the grass beside him (he would have given anything to be able to fling it far from him), and makes some casual remark about the excessive beauty of the evening.
And, indeed, it is beautiful; all down the Western slope of the fir-crowned hill, the fading rays of light still wander, though even now in the clear heavens the evening star has risen, and is shining calm and clear as a soul entered on its eternal rest.
"Will you not read us something else?" says Dulce, feeling a little ashamed of herself.
"Some other time," returns he.
"Dicky rather took the sentiment out of it," says Roger, still maliciously mirthful. "I hardly think he and the Swan of Avon would be congenial souls."
"Well, I don't know," says Sir Mark, lazily. "We have been taught that extremes meet, you see."
"Dicky, how can you stand their impertinence?" asks Dulce, gaily. "Assert yourself, I entreat you."
"There is such a thing as silent contempt," says Mr. Browne, untouched by their darts. "There is also a passage somewhere that alludes to an 'unlettered small-knowing soul;' I do not desire to quote it in this company. Let us return to the immortal Bill."
But they are all laughing still, and in the face of laughter, it is difficult to get back to tragedy. And so no one encourages Gower to continue his work, and this, in despite of the fact that the light growing as it is toward the gloaming, seems in keeping with dismal tales and softly-mouthed miseries.
Every moment the evening star grows brighter, gaining glory as the day declines. The mist has died away into the ocean, the breeze has sunk to slumber, only the song of many birds hymning themselves to roost amongst the quiet thickets disturbs the tranquility of the air.