Rossmoyne, crossing the brilliant moonlit path that divides him from the group round Hermia, seats himself beside her, thereby leaving Olga and Ulic Ronayne virtually alone.
"You will regret that guitar to-morrow," says Ronayne,—"at least not the thing itself (I can replace that), but——"
"I regret nothing," says Mrs. Bohun, carelessly,—"unless I regret that you have taken an absurdly ill-tempered action so much to heart. I am ill-tempered, you know."
"I don't," says Ronayne.
"So courteous a liar must needs obtain pardon. But let us forget everything but this lovely night. Was there ever so serene a sky? see how the stars shine and glimmer through the dark interstices of the blue-gray clouds!"
"They remind me of something,—of some words," says Ronayne, in a low voice. "They come to me now, I hardly know why, perhaps because of the night itself, and perhaps because—" he hesitates.
Olga is staring dreamily at the studded vault above her.
"About the stars?" she asks, without looking at him.
"Yes:—
'A poet loved a star,
And to it whispered nightly,
Being so fair, why art thou, love, so far,
Or why so coldly shine who shin'st so brightly?'