There was no veil upon your heart,
There was no veil upon your eyes;
I did not know the Stars were dim,
Nor long for that dead Moon to rise.
They dined with Edward and Mary next day.
The centipedes were still immured, and Edward made tentative overtures to David on the subject of broaching the case after dinner.
“Edward is the soul of hospitality,” David said afterwards. “He keeps his best to the end. First, a positively good dinner, then some comparatively enjoyable music, and, last of all, the superlatively enthralling centipedes.”
At the time, he complied with a very good grace. He even contrived a respectable degree of enthusiasm when the subject came up.
It was Mary who insisted on the comparatively agreeable music.
“No—I will not have you two going off by yourselves the moment you’ve swallowed your dinner. It’s not good for people. Edward will certainly have indigestion—yes, Edward, you know you will. Come and have coffee with us in a proper and decent fashion, and we’ll have some music, and then you shall do anything you like, and I’ll talk to Elizabeth.”