“You can’t separate them, my dear fellow; it’s not to be done in this country. But that’s shifting the question too wide of the mark,” observed Sir Simon, who began to feel it was being driven rather too close. “The thing is, how am I to raise the wind to quiet this architect? It is too late to discuss the wisdom of building the stables; they are built, and they must be paid for.” “Sell those two hunters that you paid five hundred pounds apiece for; that will go a long way towards it,” suggested the count. The proposition was self-evident, but that did not make it the more palatable to Sir Simon. He muttered something about not seeing his way to a purchaser just then. Raymond, however, pressed the matter warmly, and urged him to set about finding one without delay. He brought forward a variety of arguments to back up this advice, and to prove to his friend that not only common sense and justice demanded that he should follow it, but that, from a selfish point of view, it was the best thing he could do. “Trust me,” he cried, “the peace of mind it will bring you will largely compensate for the sacrifice.” Sacrifice! It sounded like a mockery on Raymond de la Bourbonais’ lips to apply the word to the sale of a couple of animals for the payment of a foolish debt; but Raymond, whatever Sir Simon might say to the contrary, made large allowance for their relative positions, and was very far from any thought of irony when he called it a sacrifice. “You’re right; you’re always right, Raymond,” said the baronet, leaning his arm heavily on the count’s shoulder, and imperceptibly guiding him closer to the river, that was flowing on like a message of peace in the solemn, star-lit silence. “I’d be a happier man if I could take life as you do, if I were more like you.” “And had to black your own boots?” Raymond laughed gently. “I shouldn’t mind a rap blacking my boots, if nobody saw me.” “Ah! that’s just it! But when people are reduced to black their own boots, they’re sure to be seen. The thing is to do it, and not care who sees us.” “That’s the rub,” said Sir Simon; and then they walked on without speaking for a while, listening to a nightingale that woke up in a willow-tree and broke the silence with a short, bright cadence, ending in a trill that made the very shadows vibrate on the water. There is a strange unworldliness in moonlight. The cold stars, tingling silently in the deep blue peace so far above us, have a voice that rebukes the strife of our petty passions more forcibly than the wisest sermon. The cares and anxieties of our lives pale into the flimsy shadows that they are, when we look at them in the glory of illuminated midnight heavens. What sheer folly it all was, this terror of what the world would say of him if he sold his hunters! Sir Simon felt he could laugh at the world’s surprise, ay, or at its contempt, if it had met him there and then by the river’s side, while the stars were shining down upon him.