“Perhaps it was not the fault of your glass,” said Alleyne, smiling. “A glass of a very low power will show them. I have often watched them through a good binocular.”
“I’m afraid ours is a very bad one,” said Glynne.
“No, I should be more disposed to think it a good one, Miss Day. The reason you did not see them is this; one was eclipsed by the planet—in other words, behind it—while the others are passing across its body, whose brightness almost hides them—in fact, does hide them to such an extent that they would not be seen by you.”
There was a few minutes’ silence here, broken at last by Glynne, as she said in a low, thoughtful voice,—
“How much you know. How grand it must be.”
Alleyne laughed softly before replying.
“How much I know!” he said, in a voice full of regret. “My dear madam, I know just enough to see what a very little I have learned; how pitifully small in such a science as astronomy is all that a life devoted to its depths would be.”
“For shame, Moray,” cried Lucy, warmly. “You know that people say you are very clever indeed.”
“Yes,” he replied, “I know what they say; but that is only their judgment. I know how trifling are the things I have learned compared with what there is to acquire.”
“What a goose Glynne is,” said the major to himself, as he stood listening to the conversation. “Why, this man is worth a dozen Rolphs.”