The night was very warm and very still, and upon the quietude stole a sound—softer, yet more insistent than the whisper of wind among leaves,—a soothing, murmurous sound that seemed to make the pervading quiet but the more complete.
"How cool the brook sounds!" sighed the Duchess at last, "and the perfume of the roses,—oh dear me, how delicious! Indeed I think the scent of roses always seems more intoxicating after one has supped well, for, after all, one must be well-fed to be really romantic,—eh, Jack?"
"Romantic, mam!" snorted the Captain, "romantic,—I say bosh, mam! I say—"
"And then—the moon, Jack!"
"Moon? And what of it, mam,—I say—"
"Roses always smell sweeter by moonlight, Jack, and are far more inclined to—go to the head—"
"Roses!" snorted the Captain, louder than before, "you must be thinking of rum, mam, rum—"
"Then, Jack, to the perfume of roses, add the trill of a nightingale—"
"And of all rums, mam, give me real old Jamaica—"
"And to the trill of a nightingale, add again the murmur of an unseen brook, Jack—"