"You have no right to doubt my sincerity—not yet," she said.
"No," slowly. "Not yet. I'm only warning you that it isn't going to be easy—warning you that you will be placed in positions that may be unpleasant to you, when our relations may be questioned—"
"I've considered that," quickly. "I'm prepared for that. I will do what is required of me."
He took her hand and held it for a moment in his own, but she would not look at him.
"Hermia—"
"What, Philidor?"
"You're not angry?"
"Not in the least. I'm not a fool—"
Suddenly she sprang down the rock away from him, and, before he knew what she was about, had fastened her "orchestra" around her and was making the air hideous with sound. He sat up, swinging his long legs over the edge of the rock, watching her and laughing at the futile efforts of her members to achieve a concert. Even Clarissa stopped her grazing long enough to look up, ears erect, eying the musician in grave surprise, and then, with a contemptuous flirt of her tail, went on with her repast.
"Everyone knows a donkey has no soul for music," laughed Hermia, in a breathless pause between efforts.