Martin: I fancied so too. For though any of these accidents would have marred the ending, love is a divinity above all accidents, and guards his own with extraordinary obstinacy. Nothing could have thwarted him of his way but one thing. Five of the Milkmaids: Oh, what? Martin: Had Thea been one of those who are not interested in the study of men. Nobody said anything in the Apple-Orchard. Joscelyn: She need not have been condemned to unhappiness on that account, singer. And what does the happiness or unhappiness of an idle story weigh? Whether she wedded another, or whether they were parted by whatever cause, such as her superior station, or even his death, it's all one to me. Jennifer: And me. Jessica: And me. Jane: And me. Martin: The tale is judged. Let it go hang. For a cloud has dropped over nine-tenths of the moon, like the eyelid of a girl who still peeps through her lashes, but will soon fall asleep for weariness. I have made her lids as heavy as yours with my poor story. Let us all sleep and forget it. So the girls lay down in the grass and slept. But Joyce went on swinging. And every time she swayed past him she looked at Martin, and her lips opened and shut again, nothing having escaped them but a very little laughter. The tenth time this happened Martin said: "What keeps your lashes open, Mistress Joyce, when your comrades' lie tangled on their cheeks? Is it the same thing that opens your lips and peeps through the doorway and runs away again?" "MUST my lashes shut because others' do?" said Joyce. "May not lashes have whims of their own?" "Nothing is more whimsical," said Martin Pippin. "I have known, for instance, lashes that WILL be golden though the hair of the head be dark. It is a silly trick." "I don't dislike such lashes," said Joyce. "That is, I think I should not if ever I saw them." Martin: Perhaps you are right. I should love them in a woman. Joyce: I never saw them in a woman. Martin: In a man they would be regrettable. Joyce: Then why did you give them to Young Gerard? Martin: Did I? It was pure carelessness. Let us change the color of his lashes. Joyce: No, no! I will not have them changed. I would not for the world. Martin: Dear Mistress Joyce, if I had the world to offer you, I would sit by the road and break it with a pickax rather than change a single eyelash in Young Gerard's lids. Since you love them. Joyce: Oh, did I say so? Martin: Didn't you?--Mistress Joyce, when you laugh I am ready to forgive you all your debts. Joyce: Why, what do I owe you? Martin: An eyelash. Joyce: I am sure I do not. Martin: No? Then a hair of some sort. How will you be able to sleep to-night with a hair on your conscience? For your own sake, lift that crowbar. Joyce: To tell you the truth, I fear to redeem my promise lest you are unable to redeem yours. Martin: Which was? Joyce: To blow it to its fellow, who is now wandering in the night like thistledown. Martin: I will do it, nevertheless.