“No, not often,” she replied, in a tone of regret; “I wish we did.”
“What! this dulness, this melancholy, this want of color!”
“Why, my dear Count, it is a most beautiful day!” cried the lady, with great vivacity; “what have you to complain of?”
“Complain of?” The Greek’s face was a study as he repeated her words, and he stared at her in surprise. “Why, I complain of this want of sunlight; it is not like yesterday, which was passable.”
“Passable!” echoed Mrs. Dengelton, surprised in her turn. “Why, Count, since you have come to Roylands, the weather has been simply perfection. How long have you been in England?”
“Two months.”
“Then you must have had this lovely weather all along. You are an exceptionally lucky man, Count Constantine, for you have seen England at her best.”
“Why, have you worse days than this?” asked Caliphronas, with a shudder.
“Infinitely worse,” said Eunice, who at this moment joined them with Crispin: “fog, snow, rain, hail, mist—oh, you don’t know the capabilities of the English climate!”
“I am glad I am going away,” observed Caliphronas, with a sigh of relief; “this place would kill me. Gray skies, small cultivated landscapes, ugly cities, sad-looking men and women. Oh, great saints! what do you know of life or pleasure?”