And so they went on discussing their arrangements, while the refulgent day was everywhere declaring itself, though as yet no sound of the far-off world could reach this isolated garden. Nor was there any direct sunshine falling into it; but a beautiful warmth of color now shone on the young green of the elms and chestnuts and hawthorns, and on one or two tall-branching, trembling poplars just coming into leaf; while the tulip-beds--the stars, the crescents, the ovals, and squares--were each a mass of brilliant vermilion, of rose, of pale lemon, of crimson and orange, or clearest gold. This new-found dawn seemed wholly to belong to the birds. Perhaps it was their universal chirping and carolling that concealed the distant echo of the highways; for surely the heavily-laden wains were now making in for Covent Garden? At all events there was nothing here but this continuous bird-clamor and the voices of these modern nymphs and swains as they went this way and that over the velvet-smooth lawn. And now the bewitching Pastora appears upon the scene (but would Mrs. Clive have worn a gold _pince-nez_ at rehearsal?) and she has just quarrelled with her lover Palaemon-- "Insulting boy! I'll tear him from my mind; Ah! would my fortune could a husband find! And just in time, young Damon comes this way, A handsome youth he is, and rich, they say." The butterfly-hearted Damon responds at once: "Vouchsafe, sweet maid, to hear a wretched swain, Who, lost in wonder, hugs the pleasing chain: For you in sighs I hail the rising day, To you at eve I sing the lovesick lay; Then take my love, my homage as your due-- The Devil's in her, if all this won't do." [_Aside._ It must be confessed that the pretty and smiling and blushing Miss Georgie Lestrange looked just a little self-conscious as she had to listen to this extremely frank declaration; but she had the part of the coquettish Pastora to play; and Pastora, as soon as she discovers that Damon has no thought of marriage, naturally declines to have anything to do with him. And here came in the duet which had first suggested this escapade: [Illustration: "_You say at your feet that I wept in despair. And voic'd that no angel was ever so fair; How could you believe all the nonsense I spoke? What know we of angels? I meant it in joke I meant it in joke. What know we of angels? I meant it in joke._"] "DAMON. From flow'r to flow'r, his joy to change, Flits yonder wanton bee; From fair to fair thus will I range, And I'll be ever free. From fair to fair thus will I range, And I'll be ever free. "PASTORA. You little birds attentive view, That hop from tree to tree; I'll copy them, I'll copy you, For I'll be ever free.