"Why should they be?"
"Ah! why shouldn't they?" said Eustace meaningly. "If the truth was pleasant, nobody would mind hearing it, but then the truth is not always pleasant."
"That is the fault of the person spoken of."
"I daresay, but he doesn't look at it in that philosophical light."
"You are as cynical as ever," she said with a sigh, as she arose to leave the table.
"The fault of the world, as I said before," he responded, opening the door. "I would like to believe in my fellow-creatures, only they won't let me."
When she had vanished, he returned to his wine, and began to ponder over her words. He saw plainly enough that she did not care about him at all, but with ingrained vanity and egotism would not admit the coldness to himself.
"I'll try what a song can do," he thought, as he followed her to the drawing-room. "I can say in a song what I dare not say in plain words."
Of course, Lady Errington had run up to the nursery to take a look at the baby, but shortly afterwards came down with an apology, to find Eustace seated at the piano.
Outside was the luminous twilight of July, with a pale, starlit sky, arched over the prim Dutch garden. The windows were open, and a warm breath of summer, heavy with the perfume of flowers, floated into the room. The sombre trees stood black and dense against the clear sky, the garden was filled with wavering shadows, and a nightingale was singing deliciously in the heart of the still leaves as the bats glided like ghosts through the air. Lady Errington established herself in a comfortable chair near the open window, with a white wrap as a protection against the falling dews, and Eustace, sitting at the Erard, in the bright light of the lamp, ran his fingers delicately over the keys.