BULLER.
I felt a drop of rain on the back of my hand.
SEWARD.
It must have been, then, from your nose. There will be no rain this week. But a breath of air there is somewhere—for the mirror is dimmed, and the vision gone.
NORTH.
The drop was not from his nose, Seward, for here are three—and clear, pure drops too—on my Milton. I should not be at all surprised if we were to have a little rain.
SEWARD.
Odd enough. I cannot conjecture where it comes from. It must be dew.
BULLER.
Who ever heard of dew dropping in large fat globules at meridian on a summer's day? It is getting very close and sultry. The interior must be, as Wordsworth says, "Like a Lion's den." Did you whisper, sir?