opinions than Sarah Drew cares now for what I
say of her? But then she never cared. She loved John Hughes. And she
was right."

He made an end of speaking, still peering out of the window with
considerate narrowed eyes.

The storm was over. In the beech-tree opposite a wren was raising
optimistic outcry. The sun had won his way through a black-bellied
shred of cloud; upon the terrace below, a dripping Venus and a Perseus
were glistening as with white fire. Past these, drenched gardens, the
natural wildness of which was judiciously restrained with walks, ponds,
grottoes, statuary and other rural elegancies, displayed the
intermingled brilliancies of diamonds and emeralds, and glittered as
with pearls and rubies where tempest-battered roses were reviving in
assertiveness.

"I think the storm is over," Mr. Pope remarked. "It is strange how
violent are these convulsions of nature. . . . But nature is a
treacherous blowsy jade, who respects nobody. A gentleman can but
shrug under her onslaughts, and henceforward civilly avoid them. It is
a consolation to reflect that they pass quickly."

He turned as in defiance. "Yes, yes! It hurts. But I envy them.
Yes, even I, that ugly spiteful hornet of a man! 'the great Mr. Pope,'
who will be dining with the proudest people in England within the hour
and gloating over their deference! For they presume to make a little
free with God occasionally, John, but never with me. And _I_ envy
these dead young fools. . . . You see, they loved each other, John. I
left them, not an hour ago, the happiest of living creatures. I looked
back once. I pretended to have dropped my handkerchief. I imagine
they were talking of their wedding-clothes, for this broad-shouldered
Hughes was matching poppies and field-flowers to her complexion. It
was a scene out of Theocritus. I think Heaven was so well pleased by
the tableau that Heaven hastily resumed possession of its enactors in
order to prevent any after-happenings from belittling that perfect
instant."

"Egad, and matrimony might easily have proved an anti-climax," Gay
considered.

"Yes; oh, it is only Love that is blind, and not the lover necessarily.
I know. I suppose I always knew at the bottom of my heart. This
hamadryad was destined in the outcome to dwindle into a village
housewife, she would have taken a lively interest in the number of eggs
the hens were laying, she would even have assured her children,
precisely