d then turns to the moon_.]

PHOEBUS [_alone_].

His familiarity was not distasteful to me. It reminded me of days
out hunting, when I have come suddenly upon him at the edge of the
watercourse, and have shared his melons and his conversation. I
anticipate for him some not unagreeable experiences. The lower
order of divinities will probably adapt themselves with ease
to our new conditions. They despaired the most suddenly, with
wringing of hands as we raced to the sea, with interminable
babblings and low moans and screams, as they clustered on the deck
of that extraordinary vessel. But the science of our new life must
be to forget or to remember. We must live in the past or forego
the past. For Pan and his likes I conceive that it will largely
resolve itself into a question of temperature--of temperature and
of appetite. That orb is of a sinister appearance, but to do it
justice it looks heated. My sister had a passion for coldness; she
would never permit me to lend her any of my warmth. I cannot say
that it is chilly here to-night. I am agreeably surprised.

[_The veiled figure flits across again, and_ PAN _once more
crosses in close pursuit_.]

PHOEBUS [_as they vanish_].

What an amiable vivacity! Yes; the lower order of divinities will
be happy, for they will forget. We, on the contrary, have the
privilege of remembering. It is only the mediocre spirits, that
cannot quite forget nor clearly remember, which will have neither
the support of instinct nor the solace of a vivid recollection.

[_He seats himself. A noise of laughter rises from the marsh,
and dies away. In the silence a bird sings._]

PHOEBUS.

Not the Daulian nightingale, of course, but quite a personable
substitute: less prolongation of the triumph, less insistence upon
the agony. How curiously the note breaks off! Some pleasant little
northern bird, no doubt. I experience a strange and quite
unprecedented appetite for moderation. The absence of the thrill,
the shaft, the torrent is not disagreeable. The actual Phocian
frenzy would be disturbing here, out of place, out of time. I must
congratulate this little, doubtless brown, bird on a very
considerable skill in warbling. But the moon--what is happening
to _it_? It is not merely climbing higher, but it is manifestly
clarifying its light. When I came, it was copper-coloured, now it
is honey-coloured, the horn of it is almost white like milk. This
little bird's incantat